


The Paladin Chronicles

by kerning



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Transformation, Bisexual Character of Color, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Team as Family, broganes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-06-12 18:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 70,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15345879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerning/pseuds/kerning
Summary: Thrown from her home planet and the life she’s always known, Princess Allura finds herself on Earth amongst fellow Paladins combating a Galran invasion wrought by insidious new methods. With danger at their backs, the Paladins must find a way to eliminate the Galra’s growing numbers, even as the Galra’s ranks begin to encroach on their lives in unexpected ways.





	1. The Lion

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the Voltron fandom proper, hope you like the Animorphs crossover absolutely no one asked for! If you haven't read Animorphs, don't worry about it, the "lore" is established in this first arc and you don't need to know events or characters. Honestly, I was super inspired to write this in the interim between s6 and s7 and rewatching the premiere where Shiro called the Galra "a plague". Thanks goes out to my beta reader, 8bitcu! As always, kudos and comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Shoutout to 8bitcu, because The Paladin Chronicles now have awesome posters for each chapter, which you can view [ here! ](http://maisoncavalier.tumblr.com/tagged/tpc-covers)

                _Just consider me a celebrity, first name only. Mysterious, debonair. Now you’re getting it. My name is Lance. There are aliens among us and not the friendly kind like we hoped for first contact. But trust me, what I’m about to tell you is much cooler. See, me and my friends, we’re going to save the world._

                Diving through the clouds would always bring him joy. Riding high on a thermal was about as close to becoming a pilot Lance will ever get now. Still, he peered down at the strip of dirt functioning as their racetrack, making his voice as commanding as possible to the riders below. He intended to take his role seriously.<You boys know the rules, any cheaters and well, I had a big lunch.> Hunk’s laughter shook his shoulders as he revved the bikes engine, Keith’s face contorting in disgust as he looked up toward his thin silhouette. A beat, then one finger lifted. _Someone forgot he can’t think-speak again._ <On my mark…Go!>

                They tear off on their bikes, twin dust trails in their wake. Hunk pressed an early lead, steady for a win. But Keith, taking a curve with a hard lean low enough that it definitely left streaks of sand in his ungodly mullet, screeched ahead. When Hunk coasted to the end of the course, idling before cutting the engine, Lance sighs. <Hunk wins.>

                Hook, line, sinker.

                “Are you kidding me, I won that!” Keith sputtered, jabbing a finger in Lance’s direction as he landed on a nearby branch. It’s times like these he missed conspiratorial high-fives with Hunk.

                Lance fluffed up his feathers in outrage. <Listen, mullet—>

                “No need for name-calling,” Hunk beseeched him, palms out. This close, Lance smelt the raw hamburger in his bag. Steak tartare, he called it. It’s the good stuff. He supposed he could hold his mind for once. The indignity of it all.

                He directed his thoughts at Hunk. <He wouldn’t want to be taught a lesson on why they call me sharpshooter.>

                “Probably not.”

                Keith blinked between them and decided to let his suspicions drop, wiping at his sweaty face with the tail of his shirt like a heathen. “Where’s Shiro?”

                “Uh I dunno, haven’t heard from him but Pidge texted that she was still working on a way to get new morphs.” They’d all worked out a secret code for their messages, even though it was frustratingly impossible for Lance to respond using the modified smart watch they’d given him.

                Keith grunted an affirmative, settling on defacing Lance’s living room with the tip of a hunting knife. “Anything is better than cockroach morph.”

                All three shuddered, Lance more from empathy than anything else, something to be said for being exempt from the horrors of war by poor circumstance. His new body was the product of fatalistic time management; he was the team’s greatest warning. A parable to them all. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t stay in any morph longer than two vargas. Or you’re stuck. Still, he bided his time for their next target. Lady luck’s kindness must hold out for everyone but him. They could use it.

                There’s a slight buzz from a nearby bush and Lance hopped over to the lit screen. <Pidge is bringing Shiro in 20 doboshes.> Unnecessary to confirm their confusion, he hastily corrected as he lifted himself into the air. <Twenty minutes.> He made a lazy loop around the clearing, spotting two figures in the distance over the edge of the trees. <There they are,> he groaned, <but where’s Allura?>

                He drifted back down to the ground, pleased to find Hunk let his meal get sun-warm from a rectangle of light in its Tupperware, just how Lance preferred it.

                As though tired of ruining everything with his knife, Keith decided to do so with his presence, affixing Lance with a look that was probably meaningful but only screamed evil to him. “Oh, right. You can’t hear what I’m thinking.”

                <Well…> For once Lance didn’t know what to think back. <My ears aren’t tuned to static.>

                “Nice one, Lance.” Hunk’s smile grew bigger when he clawed open the plastic tub. “There are two servings in there, Pidge gave me a chart.”

                <I can pace myself. Don’t worry.>

                Twenty minutes never seemed so long, with Hunk marking up a notebook in chicken-scratch that Lance questioned him on while he nibbled at his dinner. Though he didn’t understand the complicated plans even after the patient explanation, it was better than Keith pacing around collecting sticks. He never stood still and watching him for too long gave Lance indigestion, of which he was happy to inform him.

                “Don’t look then!”

                There’s a rustling from deep within the trees and a few minutes later Shiro and Pidge break into the field, Allura not a step behind but much quieter. Lance stopped chatting and teasing his friends to greet them. <Shiro, Pidge, welcome to my corner of the woods, make yourselves at home!>

                “Good to see you holding up Lance.” Shiro slung a heavy backpack off his shoulder as Pidge waved.

                <Allura, it’s been too long.> Not really. But Allura was gorgeous. And also an alien. The good kind. The kind that fought harder because she’d lost more than any of them, the kind that made this forest a little brighter whenever she was near. <I’ve been counting down the doboshes.>

                <You’ve caught on to our methods of time remarkably fast, I’m impressed.> Allura broadcasted her voice to everyone but surely the warmth suffusing his mighty bird heart belonged to him alone. The head tilt she gave in return shouldn’t be as cute as it is mocking. <But that’s over two thousand doboshes, how do you ever keep track?>

                “There’s no way, his walnut brain would explode.” Someone was still mad over a prank.

                “Keith.” Shiro issued threats made promises in one word, and a clod of dirt fell from Keith’s hair as he crossed his arms in a mumbled complaint. “Go on Pidge, tell them your plan.”

                Pidge immediately plopped down on the seat of Keith’s bike forming the center of their gathered semicircle, pushed her glasses up and let the momentary silence build to droning bugs and expectation.

                “There’s only one way I can see us acquiring stronger morphs: we are going to break into the city zoo.”

                All hell broke loose as everyone spoke at once.

                “Uh, I vote we stay away from animal jail.” Hunk twiddled his thumbs, almost masking the panic. “Y’know, so we don’t all get sent to human prison!”

                “I’ve got a crowbar in my room.”

                “What is a zoo?” Lance explained to Allura in private thought-speak, she nodded and admitted they had something similar —a tingling and unpronounceable word even if he’d still possessed a mouth—on her home planet, Altea.

                “Next time, ease into it.” Shiro scrubbed a hand over his face, mussing his dark hair before it fell back into place. “Look, Pidge will hack the video feed so we can get inside undetected, then switch off the motion detectors and join us from there. And Lance you’ll be our intel. Keep a close watch, so we avoid the worst of the guards, but they’ll be nothing we can’t handle together.” He dropped to his knees, rummaging around the contents of his bag before pulling out a crumpled map and unfolding it.

                <Eyes in the sky, got it.>

                Careful not to dig his talons too deep in the fabric of Hunk’s vest, Lance perched on his shoulder as they gathered around the map of the zoo. Tiny depictions of animals littered the map but Shiro pointed to a section circled in black magic marker. “This seems like our best start.”

                “Majestic.” Almost reverent and full of wonder, Allura touched a finger to the tiger’s likeness. “If we’re going to bring the fight to the Galra we will need the aid of these creatures.”

                “Yes, Princess, and they’re deadly; it’s also central to other enclosures that could benefit us.” He tapped two spread fingers against the primates’ pavilion and the beginning of the safari exhibit. “If all goes according to plan, we could have everything we need in a single strike. We stay close and acquire as many animals as we can. It’s going to take patience and a lot of focus. No one goes in alone, get in and get out.” He leveled a hard stare at Pidge and Keith. “No solo missions.”

 

 

                Residual heat from the deserted parking lot made for effortless flight and Lance floated high, his friends waiting for Pidge from within the confines of the zoo. She landed nearby on the arm of a bench, slipping out of her pigeon morph. Even though Lance could still count the number of freckles on Pidge’s nose once it appeared, uneasiness crept into his head. Nighttime would fully be upon them soon, his superior vision fading as the sun lowered completely.

                As soon as her vocal cords formed enough to speak, she hopped down and her words rushed together. “Mmwe’ve got an hour or two max before security notices.”

                Shiro led the way, the others trailing behind him. “Let’s get the tigers first, figure the rest out later.”

                Lance spied a set of twin shadows.

                <You’ve got two guys coming your way!> Lance called down to the group and they froze in place, Shiro’s arm still aloft in a halting position. <Make a run for the café, plenty of cover there. Hurry, there’s still time!>

                They ran, Lance offering directions in their heads until the building loomed ahead, its dark windows and the carousel in front of it a sanctuary. Hunk and Pidge ducked beneath a table; Keith, Shiro and Allura tucked themselves behind the carousel.

                <One went for a vending machine run but the other guy is on route.>

                A single pair of boots shuffled over the pavement, keys and equipment jangling as the security guard walked past, walkie-talkie in hand. “Ugh, one of the keepers left a lion in the enclosure.” A hiss of feedback. “No, I’ll take care of it. Over.”

                <Stay still, Hunk.>

                It was too late; Hunk’s shadow stretched over the ground, clearly human.

                “Huh?” The guard sought its’ source. “What’s tha—?”

                He doesn’t say more, slumped with his weight balanced between Shiro and Keith, the two of them wary not to leave any evidence against his skin.

                “Oh no. Is he dead? He can’t be dead, right?” Hunk’s tone pitched higher as he kept talking. “Committing murder and a felony to fight the Galra, no big deal.”

                “Hunk, relax. He’s knocked out, not dead. We’ve got to hurry.” Voice even, Shiro leaned away. “Princess.”

                “Why couldn’t we keep obtaining our morphs from the shelter, they wear muzzles, and it’s safe!” Hunk was beyond Lance’s persistent attempts to calm him down until a slap rang out.

                “Because the Galra aren’t always going to be outwitted by pack of skinny coyotes and raccoons.”

                <Thanks, Pidge.>

                “Ow.”

                As she could leave no fingerprints, Allura carried the man away, stowing him on the carousel seat shaped like a fan of peacock feathers. From far enough away, the guard was the picture of a visitor, worn out by a day at the zoo.

                “We’ve gotta get that lion!” Keith said, whirling on Shiro who closed his eyes briefly only for Keith to take his sigh as an indication to continue. “It’s right there, I could—”

                “No. Stick to the plan. We’ll have to split up but… it can’t be helped. Hunk, Pidge, go to the primates tower, I assure you there’s nothing scary there. Lance, you trail them. Keith, you’re with me and Princess Allura.”

                Keith swore under his breath but not so quietly Lance couldn’t hear the terse dammit.

                “To the monkey exhibit we go, come on!” Pidge chirped, dragging Hunk by the arm until his feet worked. “Don’t fall off the bed this time.”

                “A nursery rhyme, really?”

                <You were a pretty big baby back there.>

                “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

                Lance zoned out of their good-natured squabbling over monkey-themed songs, scanning ahead for any problems. None arrived and the pair stood before the gorilla area, a very large silverback holding sleepy vigil in a pile of hay.

                “You remember how this goes.” Pidge nudged him forward.  

                “Yeah, right. Of course.” Squaring his shoulders, Hunk opened and shut the gate behind him, balking as the gorilla whoop-barked in his direction. Alert yet not alarmed. “But ‘ _help us help you’_ , isn’t gonna keep my hand from getting bitten off.”

                <You’ve got this.> The hawk part of his brain didn’t like cramming into the rafters, only adding to his nerves, but Lance overpowered it to watch as Hunk tore off a glove and reached out. The thing about acquiring a new morph was that it took focus. Focus Hunk clearly possessed in that moment, the gorilla swapping his curiosity for an almost trance-like state. Hunk didn’t hesitate and teleported to the other side of the gate, locked and secured, shaking off whatever residual emotion accompanied connecting with the gorilla. His palm rose for a high-five, yet the gorilla remained a picture of tranquility as Pidge returned the gesture once he put his glove back on.

                “Congrats, you did it! If you see something else to snag, do it. Lance, get some air, you’re practically molting. I need a bonobo.” Clearly on a mission, Pidge drifted down the corridor. “And a visit to the aviary.”

                “Great, that's not gonna alert more guards…” Apprehension rolled off of Hunk in a wave that buoyed Lance towards the exit. “Why do you need a bonobo, specifically?”

                <Be careful and stick together.>

                Halting mid-ramble about a paper she wrote, Pidge gave him an affirmative as he took to the open sky.

 

 

                <Allura?> He tried again. Thought-speak wasn’t limitless in its reach. <Allura! Where are you guys?>

                <Lance, you’re supposed to shadow the others,> Allura chided.  <Keith, Prince Shiro, and I are with the tigers now.>

                He corrected his flight path and her voice grew stronger in his mind.

                <They really wanted to play. It’s taken me phoebs to calm this tiger down enough for Prince Shiro to connect with him.>

                In the encroaching night, it was easy to blame the curl in his stomach on the nagging drive to return to his nest and not the title she so stubbornly attached to Shiro.

                <Hunk can turn into a gorilla now. They’re fine— like the prince said, it wasn’t dangerous at all.>

                <I’m right glad of it. Your people have so many wonderful, fierce, predators it’s difficult to choose. It’s almost as if they chose us—>  

                <Uh, hold that thought.> He swooped down for a closer look. Oh no. <Trouble incoming. They’ve found the guard.>

                Hunk and Pidge had to be within range, though he certainly couldn’t be sure they heard him.

                Silence.

                <While we agree it best to leave now, Keith is not with us.> Allura’s voice steeled as it reached out to him. <He must have shirked his duties when we were preoccupied.>

                <Surveil-Lance, at your service.> Good thing he had an obvious hunch as to where he went. <Don’t worry Allura, I’ll find him.>

                <You also do not worry, with the holophone Prince Shiro will tell…>  

                Out of range, Lance flapped to greater and harder heights, an inconvenience all squarely to blame on the target he’d yet to locate. He flew above the sign decorated with cartoon elephants, above a small aviary that tugged on a part of him he didn’t recognize, above an annoyance climbing over the chain link fence, scurrying down halfway before dropping to the dirt. 

                The lion growled at the intrusion to its den; the only visitors it had had wore protective gear.

                <Keith! Are you trying to become lion chow?!>

                He was still too high. Or Keith, in a fit of an incurable idiot condition, ignored him. Either way this wasn’t looking too cool.

                “Good kitty.” He padded closer towards his quarry that wasn’t quarry at all. Hand tentatively outstretched, Keith was an unwrapped bonbon in spandex and a hair tie. “Take it easy, boy. Let’s be friends.”

                Ears flattened, the lion’s tail flicked. Final warning. Keith took one sensible step away and the lion arched its back.

                Screaming, Lance dove. The hawk’s cry ripped through the night. _Come on._ Talons out, a straight vertical drop. _I won’t let you down._ Fur and flesh ensnared within his grasp and he pulled and twisted.  <Touch the lion, you have to—> He yelled, rolling once as a paw batted him to the ground.

                The world narrowed to an angry lion snarl. Weak. Before Keith was the main course, he would become an hors d’oeuvre and his brain didn’t even have the decency to supply a montage of his life. He’s dying. “Lance!” But his shout was distant, and everything reverberated to a shudder. He’s gone. One man facedown, tethered to the beast, its’ aggression bled away in ticks of Lance’s heartbeat, all three of them panting on the short grass.

                “Whoa.” Keith stood first, shaking his head and kneeling by his side. “Lance… Are you okay? Can you fly?”

                <Dead. No life, no life.> Moved against his will, almost cradled in a warmth seeping between his feathers. <All threat here.>

                “Lance? No, I’m with you. Get up.”

                It couldn’t be. _If this is heaven then why? No way then I’m…_

                Both sides of himself panicked and he folded, hissing, flailing, anything to be free.

                “Stop it, Lance! You’re not— argh!!!”

                He’s on the lowest branch of a nearby tree when he regains control. <Security’s coming to put the lion back. You gotta get out of there.>

                Keith crawled behind a scrub bush, careful not to bleed on anything. The lion cared nothing for either of them but he wouldn’t take chances. <Morph faster he’s waking up! I can’t do round two.>

                Clutching at the gash against his chest, Keith curled in on his wound, tongue flitting overlong and thin from his split lips, a gurgle silenced by his melting insides. An aborted nod was stunted by his entire body becoming a neck; most of his bones dissolved in a sound never forgotten, but far worse were the late onset scales. Hollow shed snake skin made whole— organs and all. <This’ll work?>

                Lance doesn’t bother with a response, snatching up the ball python and hauling them out of the lion’s cage and away from the zoo before the keeper opened the enclosure. Keith dangled from his talons, complaining he would drop him all the while; by the third time, Lance reached his limit. <If I hold onto you any tighter, I’ll rip you in half.>

                He shut up after that.

                Navigating in the dark, Lance found someplace quiet enough— a poorly lit gas station across the street— where only the trees bore witness to Keith’s garbled hiss of a thank you. The keen notion he’s invading territory wriggled between his feathers more than Keith’s refusal to repeat himself once his vocal cords reformed. “Don’t tell Shiro.”


	2. The Exercise

 

_My name is Shiro. Just Shiro. I can’t give you my full name, to do so would be unwise. Not in the middle of this war, a war we couldn’t have predicted. Secrets are too powerful. And we’ve gotten too far to let down our guards now._

                It seemed a lifetime ago when bacon frying would have his brother up and setting the table. Shiro rapped his knuckles against the shut door. No movement. If he wasn’t here after the stunt he pulled…

                “Keith.” He slammed the side of his fist once on the door before feeling for the key atop the frame. A deep sleeper before their guerilla exploits began, Keith was a lump under quilts, leg sticking out at an uncomfortable angle. _At least some things never changed_. Ugh. Except for the corner he’d claimed as office space, this place was a sty, breeze fluttering the dog-eared pages of a motorcycle manual. The top drawer of Keith’s dresser hung open, clothes overstuffed until they spilled onto the floor, just another shelf.

                “Get up.” Shiro’s kindness ended at closing the window. A groan issued from the head of the bed and Shiro clasped one ankle, tugging. “Now.”

                “Mwuh, I’m up,” Keith slurred, scrabbling for the bedpost as he slid away from his precious pillow. “I’m awake.”

                If he didn’t watch him sit up, Keith would have been dead to the world again in seconds. He blinked blearily at him, creases cut into his cheek, surreptitiously wiping at his mouth from within his quilted burrito.

                He’s halfway down the hall before trudging footsteps don’t follow. He stuck his head in the doorframe. “What are you doing? Breakfast is getting cold.” Keith nearly concussed himself from kneeling half under the bed and Shiro narrowed his eyes. “You slept in your morphing suit.”

                It’s not a question. There are tears in the chest and shoulders. A particularly worrying one gouged across the center, ripping up the collar.

                “I was really tired.” Keith embodied all the subtlety of a sledgehammer as his gaze darted around the room. “And I’m still alive.”

                “Debatable, but reassuring.” Forcibly guiding him out of the bedroom, Shiro clapped him on the shoulder. “Lance saved your ass.”

                Slogging toward the table to set down dishes, Keith groaned, posture as if his puppet strings snapped. “How do you always know?”

                “I’m a detective.” Shiro stirred Keith’s favourite grits, careful not to disturb the burnt crust on the bottom of the pot. “A red-tailed hawk flew out of your window while I went for a jog. He said hello. Window open when you hate the cold, and you’re a slob, but your room definitely never smelled like bird before.” He laughed, ticking off all his points on one hand. “I might as well be psychic.”

                “You’re all narcs.”

                “You’re lucky Lance had your back.”

                “Even if he can’t keep a secret, I guess Lance is good for something.” Keith admitted, scrunching up his nose, glaring at the hard egg-yolk untouched on his plate and avoiding the seriousness in his tone.

                “Wow, high praise indeed. Send him a fruit basket.”

                “He couldn’t eat it. Do they make meat baskets?”

                “I don’t know, try asking Hunk.” Indulging in another slice of toast, Shiro masked his worry, refusing to entertain the idea of a parental video call where he had to break it to them their son died under his watch from a freak lion accident. After hours. _Oh, he was just in the cage, trying to pet it._

                He could never tell them the truth. But if he did, would they figure it out? They could be Galra, if their infestation spread that far and informing High Command; the Altean fighters thwarting expansion were nothing more than a group of humans. A wave of nausea crawled up his throat when he pictured the next time his parents called, smiling at him as the parasites nestled behind their skulls. He couldn’t be sure of his own family.

                Except Keith. It’s a selfish relief. If only he hadn’t needed to lead them into hell. His brother, always impulsive, bordered on irresponsibility; fighting like this, the lion antics were only an extension of it. He would have to make him understand what was at stake. Before he went prematurely grey.

 

 

                Halfway into his second coffee over grading papers, the unique chime of the holophone echoed from his bedroom. Allura’s face appeared on the screen.

                “It’s best we begin training with our new morphs as soon as possible, Prince Shiro.” Always straight to the point yet never brusque, Princess Allura balanced elegance in voice and action. It was natural he respond in turn with professionalism. “We must learn to work together as one unit.”

                “True, we can’t keep running on the element of surprise.” Trust in their ragtag band and in each other would only need to grow stronger. He winced, a mental tally of victories hedging on the temperamental strings of luck far too high to keep holding their weight.

                She ran a fingertip against the fur of the blue mouse that crept and hunched on her shoulder, her smiled broadened when she turned to him once again. “I doubt your success is so thinly measured. And human ingenuity continues to surprise me.” Her smile dimmed, a hardness to her tone. “But if we are to trick the Galra into believing our team is a band of Altean rogues, I must intervene.”

                “We could have no better teacher.”

                “I do not yet completely understand how humans fight and I am nowhere near a seasoned warrior, Prince Shiro, but I will fight until my last breath to stop their reign.”

                “Humans are not much different.”

                “Then our training will go splendidly. Where shall we meet?”

                “The Lab.” His brows knit together. “But, Princess? I’m not a prince.” This time, surely she would understand.

                Allura’s face schooled itself into neutrality. _Finally_. “Of course not, Prince Shiro. Return to your duties, see you there in two vargas.”

 

 

                “Sorry I’m late,” Pidge explained in a flurry of motion through the barn door. “Mom was teaching me how to double modulate a system… I guess I just lost track of time.” She opened the hydraulic panel in the floor and Shiro descended first, feeling against the cinderblock wall for guidance in the dark.

                “We weren’t waiting long.”

                The Lab, built beneath the barn on her family property, was more an underground bunker than anything else. A generator flickered on the lights overhead, pathetic attempt at artificial sunshine casting a sterile glow over the windowless space. One by one, each spotlight revealed more concrete, a utilitarian kitchen with mini fridge, and workshop tables pushed into a corner. The aerospace posters taped to the wall were its only personality. A heavy steel door— identical to the one they stepped through at the foot of the stairs— held provisional bedrooms. If they ever needed use… he clenched his jaw at the implication. Though he’d visited only a handful of times the contrast between Pidge’s family’s sprawling white farmhouse and the barn was like another world. Lance couldn’t possibly be comfortable down here. Even he needed to get used to it. They all did.

                <Nothing like meeting at the doomsday headquarters.> Lance settled atop a dusty table, preening one wing.  <Please tell me we’re gonna make this quick.>

                “It depends on how everyone adjusts to my training,” Princess Allura said, poised as ever. “I have the utmost faith in you.”  Glancing away from Shiro, she continued. <First, let’s begin with thought-speak exercises. Choose a morph you’re comfortable in.>

                <Already done.>

                Perhaps she replied, though Shiro couldn’t hear it, shucking the outer layer of his clothes for the tight workout gear he used as a morphing suit. _Something comfortable…_ He focused on an image in his mind. Joy came first, the desire to play. He tamped that down, the bones of his face shifting, a spotted muzzle appearing before his vision and he closed his eyes. Once he opened them, he was lower to the ground and he sat back on his haunches as he looked up at his brother’s incredulous face.

                “You’re Buttons,” Keith said. “How did you calm that demon enough to acquire her?”

                Poodles could be really vicious, or at least in the case of their neighbors’ pet: she hated all men, he didn’t want to face an embarrassing hospital visit, and she had been off-leash. He’d panicked. <Magic touch.>

                A hand rubbed into the brown curly fur behind his ears and he leaned into it. Hunk was petting him. Catching himself, Hunk drew back with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Shiro, Buttons is really cute. ”

                <A demon? This creature seems well-mannered enough.>

                Shiro regained control over his wagging tail and Keith raised a skeptical brow. <Don’t judge me, do as Princess Allura says.>

                “Alright! Lion time!”

                “<No!>”

                <Never morph for the first time without supervision.> Princess Allura admonished them all. <You must learn to coexist with the animal subconscious. An adverse reaction could prove disastrous for yourself and others. This is basic knowledge.>  A sigh echoed in his head. <Choose an animal with which you’ve grown familiar.>

                “Fine, but I could handle it…” Feathers sprouting from his skin in blotches, Keith shrank at a rapid rate along with his speech.

                <Let’s just ban the lion.> Lance eyeballed an oblivious Keith when he flew atop the same table. <I, for one, am traumatized enough.>

                Princess Allura took in their incongruent morphs, nodding at them in turn until she reached Hunk. She frowned, leaning into the bubble of his personal space. <You haven’t changed at all.>

                “Yeah. I’m—I’m not comfortable in anything.” Hunk fidgeted in his compression vest and shorts. “It might be faster if I learned thought-speak.” He held his temples and squinted before deflating.  “Please tell me that’s doable.”

                <Unless you are secretly Altean, I’m afraid that’s simply impossible.>

                Hunk groaned.

                Passed over for Pidge, Allura cast the primate before her an askance onceover.

                <I like having thumbs and the brains basically the same.> Pidge knuckle walked in front of Hunk, stood up and leveled a bizarrely serious expression his way. <Trust me, it’s a cake walk. Go gorilla.>

                “O-okay.” Jet black fur burst in waves over his body, leathery hands curled in then out, an inhuman grunt shushed almost immediately as the panic faded away into something far more aware. <Hey, this isn’t so bad.> Hunk sat back with a thud, idly playing with his toes.

                <Told you.>

                <So they get to morph new things?!>

                Oh no. Shiro sought words, ready to douse Keith’s impertinent upset, yet a shade of blue, calming and serene, affected his mind. After he pushed the color in Keith’s direction, the falcon’s sharp alert gaze softened.

                <That’s rough, buddy.>

                Keith’s feathers ruffled but he managed to say nothing to Lance.

                <Clearly you possess the innate ability to speak. Both to expand your range of influence and work together as a team, you need to increase your bonds with one another. As my father said, ‘communication promotes cohesion’.> Princess Allura quoted, a  flash of mournful grey at odds with her soft smile and grand gesture. <Why there’s even an Altean legend of two sworn blood brothers whose bonds of friendship were strong enough to speak to one another from opposite ends of the planet and sense the other until one reached the edges of our galaxy. Of course everyone theorized they were lovers but I don’t expect quite such deep or lofty goals from any of you.> She laughed, a gentle thing.

                <Allura, I think our connection is out of this world.>

                Shiro, picking up Princess Allura’s annoyance, physically shook himself from the dreamlike lull  clinging to the tendrils of his consciousness, unsure if the sensation could be pinned upon dog sensitivities or an effect of thought-speak.

                <Shut up, I am trying to talk to Pidge.> Keith complained. <Your corny pick-up lines are distracting me.>

                <Quit being nosy!> Lance stretched his neck, practically beak to much smaller beak. <This is a private conversation.>

                <I heard it.> Shiro admitted, honest to a fault.

                Hunk’s mouth was an apologetic gummy grin. <Me too.>

                <Oops.> Lance dipped down, bobbing his head in a little bow and swooping off the table to land on Hunk’s massive shoulder.

                <Everyone is prone to mistakes until skill matches effort. I commend yours.> _How diplomatic_.  She paced the fringe of their odd circus.  <Closed, whispered, private. However you choose to imagine it, focus solely on the recipient.>

                <Can you hear me, Princess?> He stepped in line to join her stroll, an outlet for pent up energy as they made another circuit.

                <Of course, Prince Shiro.>

                When a pale yellow blossomed behind her words he ignored the imposed title.

                <How are you doing the colors…> He sat down, trailing off in wonder. <I did that earlier but it was blue.>

                <And again I am inspired.> Princess Allura’s starburst grey surprise was palpable, then fizzled out.

                The sudden lack launched him on all fours, ears pricked and glancing in confusion at her before he overcame the instinct.

                <I have always been gifted.> Allura’s voice was ill-fittingly hesitant,  almost small. <My people are empathic to some degree. It’s heightened with the morphing technology. We truly have found…  and now to your success.>

                <Princess?>

                <My attentions were divided. It has… been awhile since I had need to multitask conversations. A wonderful conundrum.> Though she faced Pidge, the smile from their earlier conversation flitted past him like a specter. <Telepathy is all well and good but at times colors or images are succinct.> She paused, privy and arrested by a strand of conversation to which he remained ignorant. <Does it bother you?>

                <Everyone in my head at once, noisy, I could scarcely communicate.> If he’d the ability, a hand would be rubbing the back of his neck. <But it’s efficient and you alone have not overwhelmed me yet.>

                A loud screech ricocheted off the concrete. <Just get out of my head!>

                <I’m sorry, Pidge, I didn’t know!>

                She jammed her glasses on with a crumpled expression, de-morphing simultaneously as she opened the door. The irony wasn’t lost on him as she was climbing up the literal evolutionary stairwell.

                <In the interest of not overwhelming the team I’ll save that for another lesson.>

                <Good idea.>


	3. The Nobody

_I like Allura. Another person who can morph, with experience of the Galra to help us out? Even if she’s an alien, too— I’m in. We were struggling out there and she’s been a real asset to the team. My name is Keith. And all I’m looking for is a fight. A fair one._

                First to the clearing, Keith laid spread-eagled on the grass, basking in the sun he’d missed while underground. For now, quiet surrounded him without the peregrine falcon’s cooped up discomfort or the chattering flow of voices in his head. The kind of quiet only nature brought, full of life. He flicked a curious bug from his arm. A breeze ruffled his hair and shadow passed over his face.

                <It’s not really a race when you’re the fastest bird on the planet.>

                For a moment, he forgot Lance couldn’t understand his thoughts when he received no response. “Then at least try and keep up.”

                <Nah. Gotta conserve energy.>

                Taking a note from him, Keith didn’t move until the others arrived.

                <We need the practice.> Allura’s voice rolled against the shores of his mind, accusing. <Do you think the Galra would wait for your fear?>

                He wasn’t afraid. Keith sat bolt upright in time to see Hunk about face toward the line of trees in the direction of Pidge’s land.

                <I’ve got this.> Lance flew towards the trees, halting Shiro in his steps. <I’ll talk to him.>

                Keith headed towards the others, waiting for their return.

                And they’d better return.

                With such a small force opposing the Galra, hope stretched transparent if anyone decided to bail. He never expected Hunk to desert them completely— he was skittish at times— but Earth would cease to exist if the Galra harvested both the planet and humanity. Cowering would solve nothing but strengthen an already intimidating force. It mystified him. Fear was normal, something Keith mediated in his own way— push forward— but to let it hinder him to the point of abandonment?

                No. He wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not with his own family on the line.

                Head held low, Hunk marched out of the woods, resignation scrawled on his face when he looked up. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he held up a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture as they tried to interject. “I know, I know. None of us did and I’m not getting cold feet. It’s just heavy. This is all so heavy.”

                <That’s why you have all of us. We’re here for you— a regular leg to stand on.>

                A round of encouragements and agreement peppered their circle until Hunk shook his head. “Thanks, guys.” A softer expression suited him better. “What do we need to do next, Allura?”

                “It’s time to put the efforts at your zoo to good use.”

                _Finally_.

                “Nothing wrong with precautionary measures for a Siberian tiger. Hunk.” Shiro held his gaze when Hunk stood at attention. “I’ll need that gorilla morph, it’s the biggest thing we’ve got. If I lose control, you’ll be the one to put me down. I’m trusting you on this.”

                Hunk wavered but nodded. His teeth grew, their expanse breaching the confines of his lips until the rest of his body caught up and they were once again staring at Hunk in gorilla morph.

                <Let’s do it.>

                Morphing was never pretty unless Pidge did it. Or Allura. He didn’t want to ask. And some animals were beyond beauty, no matter what. Like the hard shell of a cockroach. But Keith didn’t want to think about that ever again.

                <I’d get back if I were you guys.> Lance warned, taking to the air. <No offense but I’ll be up here.>

                Shiro’s dark eyes lightened golden and eerie on his entirely human face. He stumbled, one step forward, the motion sending his knees buckling with the change of weight, muscle upon muscle. That was pure power. Variating black stripes undulated across his body like they followed an unheard rhythm. White fur followed by a desert orange spilled over his shoulders then back up to his widening face. His neck bowed, ears rotating, listening while the tiger before them remained as still as the grave.

                When filaments of whiskers unfurled from his brother’s face, Keith focused on the lion DNA within. His spine elongated first, a worrying grind of bone, pure relief that whatever granted their powers numbed the development to sensation removed. He fell to the grass, sandy fur enveloping the naked length of his tail crowned by a clump of long fur. His fingernails formed razor-sharp claws he couldn’t retract just yet. Ears rounded and crawling up the side of his head, playing back not only the tufts growing inside but also hearing the rapid growth covering his neck and chest, the hair on his head. His mane. Keith braced for the moment the lion’s instincts would meet his own. Teeth itching distantly, his canines protruded until he was forced to open his mouth waiting for his nose to flatten. Every animal that had walked through the clearing left a calling card for him to pick up in a sniff. Humans, something else?

                <I need time.> There was a voice inside his head. _Shiro?_ <No one move.>

                Muscles coiled tight, he stretched, the pull of strength felt good, an untapped world of potential. The command distant, unimportant. The lion didn’t care— neither did he.

                <Aw, man. This is too many cats.> An annoyance. <Keith, buddy, you good down there?>

                 He looked around, scanning his land only for problem after problem to arise. One he could definitely eat. He smelt what it ate for breakfast, in due time it’d be next. _No_. The other human… wait. It was bigger than the oatmeal human and growing. Confusing but ignorable. Still food. But the gorilla was trying to protect them. He could probably feast on the gorilla if he found his pride-mates. _They are your pride_. He refused such a doubtful notion.

                There was a rival in his sights.

                He should oust the tiger, he couldn’t abide this threat. The clearing smelled like the tiger. The tiger had reigned long enough. The tiger wanted everything. This was his meal, his patch of grass. And anything else he came across. He could take him. The tiger was distracted, his shoulders high, the death valley between them rocking in a pounce he’d yet to take.

                He could win this. The whispers didn’t matter. Now to ambush.

                Prowling behind the tiger, he crept closer until he was in range. A short sprint and—

                He and the tiger rolled, wrestling on the ground. He was flat on his back in an instant. His paw glanced off the side of the tigers’ face. He snarled. <Stop! Get a hold of yourself!> Shiro pinned him by the throat, holding back; his full weight would’ve crushed his neck. He could still fight, he could— <Keith!>

                His claws retracted. <I’m here, I’m back.>

                The lion’s hold on him weakened and with it the need to reveal his belly in defeat. Shiro stepped away and Keith rolled to his feet.

                <Good thing he didn’t do that in the middle of a battle.> Hunk sagged in a distinctly human manner despite his form.

                <Proud you got it under control.> Shiro brushed his face against Keith’s own in quick greeting, relaxing the lion into comfort, the gesture following warm colors. Shiro spoke to him privately, awed and contemplative. <This tigers’ competence is like no other. It’s unparalleled with its bloodlust. Better give the princess a word of warning.> He strode away with purpose, Allura already blooming with rosettes, black whorls amid beige fur, muscled and sleek.

               

               

                For the next half-hour, Keith ran the length of the clearing, each time in a tight loop testing his speed and endurance. Fast but not over great distances. Enough to catch every Galra he deemed fit, which were all of them.

                <Aren’t you tired of chasing your tail?> Pidge called out to him and though he hadn’t bothered to keep track of her new morph, he slowed a modicum.

                <I’m giving the lion a test drive, like Allura wanted.>

                She gave a noncommittal hum. <Shouldn’t you be with them, over there?>

                Camouflaged by dappled sunlight and her jaguar’s coat, Allura nestled on a bough, forepaws crossed daintily, overseeing Shiro’s attempt to climb the same tree. Tiger’s grace softened the fall, leaves drifting with the force of the strike to its’ trunk, his brother shining through in the mannerism. In an elegant leap, she remained on the ground a moment before scaling the tree again, expectant. He clawed up halfway only to plummet again, shaking his head.

                <Uh, I’ll pass.> Keith said, doubly sure of each side of himself. In fact the lion was lazy and subdued, keen to lounge on the grass. In a patch of sun preferably. Maybe take a nap. Not happening.

                Thirst nagged at him until he followed his senses to a creek and the woods hushed at his presence warranting such a response, all its’ creatures held silent at the approach of an apex predator. But he hadn’t. The real lion, sequestered yet pampered, nearly hurt him, Lance’s intervention thwarting his destiny as prey. He couldn’t focus on that. Only their next mission mattered. Controlling the nature boiling within him mattered.

                Concentric circles ripple the water, his ears attuned to a feathery rustle.

                <It was too much to hope it was some other lion, huh.> Lance dipped down to the shallow water, wading in. <Look, just. don’t tell the others.>

                <Why?>

                <They’ll think it’s gross.> He confessed, beak smeared red. <I don’t have the luxury of ordering take-out anymore.>         

                <Maybe not but it’s totally metal.> Keith admitted to the morbid thought, spurred on by the laugh building in his head. <What’d you sacrifice?>

                <Okay, now you’re creeping me out, mullet.> But there’s no heat to the name, just amusement.   

 

 

                Before the Galra invasion commanded their lives, before Shiro enlisted for service,  and way before Keith dropped out, he spent two days a week taking karate lessons at the behest of his adoptive parents. Discipline didn’t come as they hoped, unless bloodying that bully Tommy Cartwright’s nose after school counted. The show of restraint mattered little to those involved but although he was proud, it marked the end of karate. On soft mats with their feet sticking to the surface, Shiro practiced with him after that— Keith in a loose cotton uniform with no purpose— neither tempering or conquering his strength of spirit. While he sparred with his brother now, a decisive victory eluded him. Natural lion instincts, human tactics employed to no avail. Shiro won. Just like always. Even when he pointed out Keith’s losses were due to a favor of nature not skill, he chafed, like the inevitability lay ingrained in him. Supposed it did. He couldn’t surpass what he was.

                And that sucked.


	4. The Coalition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk meets a friend and makes an unsettling discovery.

                _So._

_I’m Hunk. Transparency isn’t really a thing anymore, not with the threat of imperialistic stealth  slugs from space. No one else outside our gifted friend group has any idea. Pathetic as it might be that the fate of Earth’s freedom rests partially on my shoulders, I’m still glad I’m not alone. It’s a lot of pressure — school, work, trying to have a social life — which, by the way, was enough on my plate but throw saving the world from parasitic aliens onto the buffet table and it’s like a trail mix with way too many raisins, not enough chocolate chips, you know?_

                “Dismissed!” The professor barked like a drill sergeant, an action Hunk stopped flinching over after the second week of classes. He’s dealt with scarier recently. Like Galra. Or two brotherly murder machines. By their hands, at least, it would’ve been an accidental death— but dead is dead either way. It’s not comforting.

                Most things aren’t lately.

                Hunk took a deep breath, counting backwards. He shut his laptop and tucked it into his bag, overly intent on securing it inside before he stepped outside the lecture hall. _Time to be normal, embrace it._

                As he turned the corner a familiar voice called out to him, sweet and light.

                “Hunk, I was hoping to run into you.” Shay kicked off with one boot from the bench she leaned against, her smile warm as she tucked her phone back into her pocket. “Have time for a coffee?”

                Studying for their respective classes and coffee at a local café, sometimes far more talking than anything else. It was kind of their thing. Well, it was until lately. Excuses on both sides, projects and family gatherings… late-night retaliations against the Galra. Not that he suspected she could be one of them, but that was the point, wasn’t it? Undetectable, a perfect copy of his friend Shay. But she could be trapped in her own mind unable to—

                “Oof, watch it!” The guy righted himself then sped off, heedless of syntax. It was he who ran into _him_. Hunk readjusted the hanging strap of his messenger bag, nonplussed.

                A gentle hand graced his arm for a moment. “Are you okay, Hunk?” Shay chewed the inside of her cheek, glance darting away from him. “If you’re too busy I understand, perhaps some other—”

                “Wha— yeah! Yes. Just zoned out, I guess, still recovering from lecture brain,” he joked, more confident as her mouth quirked upward. “Coffee sounds great, same place?”

                She nodded and they walked out of the building together, pressed close with the flowing sea of foot traffic. They made small talk on the short walk, bell over the café door chiming overhead, the coconut oil in her hair wafting past him and mingling with freshly brewed coffee. Shay lingered by the dessert case, the echoing click of her heeled boots louder on the uneven wood floor. Cakes and pies circled inside the glass on their turntables, slices missing in varying degrees. A chalkboard menu promised all things artisanal and organic. It called Hunk’s name. Sweet and salty, the added shot of espresso perfect for jumpstarting his brain into focusing. On studying and not the possible brain slug in Shay’s head, of course.

                He ordered a cinnamon scone, swearing to himself it would sate the nervous rumble of his stomach.

                After Shay chose a table he swept a few stray crumbs off its surface with his shirtsleeve while she hung her bag over the back of her chair, clinking dishes and whirring blenders fading away as they settled. Shay caught him up on the goings-on of her life in between bites of a strawberry tart with vanilla bean flecking its custard. A story about her brother, a presentation she’d aced, gesturing while she spoke, all of her focus and kindness a balm to omitting part of his life. It was for the best, a secret under the guise of protecting her, so he held the notion close. As many times before, the offer to bake her something —to craft a cake worth the measure of her friendship — withered not in the face of imminent rejection but losing courage. _Quit living in the past, Hunk._

                Tasting her green tea, its texture chilled to a slush, Shay’s brows drew together and she pinched the bridge of her nose.

                “Ouch.” Hunk made a face in sympathy. “Major brain freeze.”

                “Yeah, won’t make that mistake again.” Shay sighed and angled forward. “It’s basic but I can’t wait until pumpkin spice season.”

                “Pumpkin spice might be overrated but it’s a classic for a reason — your secret’s safe with me.” He raised his hand as if making an oath. “I promise.”

                “You did that like such a boy scout.” Shay’s beaming smile dissipated the fog cover in Hunk’s mind and they shared laughter. No way could a Galran alien drag him to the present so quickly. The words stumbled their way to the tip of his tongue.

                “So, Shay, do you have any aller—” A melodic ringtone cut him off and Shay twisted in her chair to retrieve her phone, hoop earrings flashing with the movement.

                “Hold on, it’s probably my grandma. I didn’t think she’d call so soon, yep.” She swiped her finger over the screen. So he hadn’t imagined her grin whenever she answered the phone. “Hi Grandma, Rax said you would call – is everything okay, do you need anything?” A pause. “I’m with my friend. The very same.”

                He scarfed down a chunk of scone, chasing it with hot coffee. She darted an apologetic smile his way as the conversation went on. He pulled out his phone, skimming it with glazed eyes as he checked largely neglected social media accounts.

                “Why, I’m making friends at school. I’m done for the day but I should study.” Her voice betrayed the slightest strain, short nails tapping against the tile tabletop in a cascading rhythm and he left a trail of hearts, thumbs, and stars while eavesdropping. “I understand. I have my classes but I’ll give The Coalition a chance, Grandma. Grand— Hello?” At her tone his head snapped up, Shay’s face in an uncharacteristic frown. “Are you alone? If no one’s home I can, you’re sure there’s nothing… Right, of course they will. Mhm, love you too.”

                “Everything alright?”

                Shay tucked her phone away, the note of haptic feedback swallowed in the depths of her bag. “I have no idea, my grandma’s never had an outburst like that.”

                “Is that common? Does she have—” He made a vague gesture, already mollifying his concern by her expression.

                “No, not at all,” Shay continued, voice firm. “I’ve never sown doubt on her presence of mind. Besides, The Coalition will check on her, or so she says.” She pushed an abandoned berry across her saucer with her fork.

                 Familiarity shadowed him but in the end he was unable to grasp it. “Wait, what exactly is the coalition?”

                “Haven’t you seen the new benches at the park? ‘ _Become part of something greater, join The Coalition._ ’”

                Now the tagline stood out, plastered on the bulletin boards at Puig Hall. Once his night manager permitted a few people to hand out flyers at the entrance of the grocery store. Too tired to care, the slips of paper were jammed in cart after cart as he’d hauled them out of the parking lot. It was everywhere. Like a virus.

                Or a plague.

                “But you don’t. Love The Coalition, I mean.” He forced the capital letters into his tone, a gesture away from air quotes. A sip of coffee removed from acid reflux.

                “Let’s put it this way, it’s like universal boy scouts. I’ve got enough happening in my life, I’d thought they understood school is my job. I don’t need anything else.” Shay grimaced, shaking her head. “My whole family likes it so much they keep inviting me to meetings. Want to come?” She stood and brushed invisible crumbs from the bib of her overalls, dish in hand. “Moral support?”

                “Uh, sure?” He agreed, sotto voce with his brow arched. “Just so you know, for the record, you did a terrible job of selling it.”

                “Good thing I’m not aiming for a business degree.” She called over her shoulder, snickering as she walked off, skirt swirling around her legs. When she returned they covered the table in books and notes, though for the life of him he couldn’t retain a single word.

 

 

                A piercing shriek of microphone feedback gouged through the room and Hunk recoiled, withdrawing his hanging hand.

                “Hello, new friends and old, welcome to The Coalition! I’m Missy, your local chapter head. It’s such a pleasure to see so many new faces. Newcomers, please raise your hands. ” She scanned the room, her pretty smile wide and completely vacuous as arms reached for the air ducts.

                “Wonderful, how about a round of applause!”

                Clapping broke out, forceful and exuberant like a homecoming. Some of the raised hands dropped to join in, hesitant then encouraged. Hunk exchanged a glance with Shay, reluctantly following along. Her brother Rax didn’t notice, but went instantly still like half of the people in the room when Missy rapped her knuckles against the podium. The applause petered out.

                “Don’t forget to drop your info card you were provided upon entry into the collection box just beyond the double doors. We would love to keep in contact. If you were not given one, please contact one of our senior members— they’re wearing the purple buttons.” Missy spun on her heel, braids fanning out in an ombré waterfall, pointing to her right at a pasty man in a dark vest, three purple buttons pinned to his lapel. “This is Roger, but any of us would be delighted to assist you. We’ve provided light refreshments, feel free to enjoy any game room with an open door marked by our new symbol. Sending out a thank you to our graphic designers because here at The Coalition everyone contributes.” She gave a theatrical wink. “Just to make it clear all other rooms and activities are a perk for members only.”

                At the booing from a gaggle of lanky teens, someone in the packed room tried to shush them while others craned their necks to find the culprits. But not Hunk.  Beyond the foldout chairs in front of the makeshift stage he had a clear view of Missy, blessings to keen eyesight and the compass of authority she clutched.  Missy’s wink shifted into an iota of a twitch, mouth curled into a hateful disdain she hid in the ducking of her head and tucking a few stray braids behind her ear.

                “Yes, yes I know, but privileges must be extended to our full members who devote themselves to joining our family.” She regarded the crowd, smile back in full force. The man at her elbow held out a dossier Missy exchanged for the microphone and she strode away from the podium.

                “In twenty minutes full members will be expected to join myself and other team leaders for further planning of community projects. Please, enjoy our gathering to make our great city a better place.”

                People milled around at the conclusion of the short speech, their chatter a steady hum. Like a bug zapper. Gripping the printed notecard he’d bent into a curve against his pant leg, Hunk drummed out an erratic beat with it. Missy’s face outpaced a mere distaste of teenagers. He rubbed the back of his neck, the pressure suppressing the chill down his spine.

                “So, Rax,” Shay nudged her brother in the side, rocking back on her heels. “You’ve got two buttons, you must have insider knowledge, what’s next?”

                “I shouldn’t divulge secrets but you always did used to love bowling. ” Rax draped an arm over her shoulder before continuing in a wheedling voice. “If you went, it could be like a family game night. Vintage.”

                 “That was before I went to college, I don’t have time now.” She lifted his arm up, stepping back. “I loved bowling when it was _just_ our family. Not a bunch of strangers.”

                “Come on, you get to know them, it’ll be great.” Rax promised before angling his chin in casual acknowledgement. “Hey, Hunk, you should join us, get a couple frames in.”

                “Don’t I have to be a member for that?” Hunk asked, shrugging before stuffing his hands in his pockets along with the card. “Besides, I’m more of a golf kind of guy.” Once he and Shay played mini-golf with his roommates. They’d lost three balls to the windmill course.

                “Never would have guessed.”

                “Raxford Cornelius Skyling, get out of the way so I can see my grandbaby.” A woman called out, voice strong despite its’ withering with age, hair a silvery cloud pinned to earth by a silk scarf. “It’s like I never see you anymore.” After she let go of Shay, Hunk shook her hand, not bothering to make another attempt with her brother. Fool me once.

                Under the handiwork of The Coalition, the recreation center was busy, yet a divide opened before him. People drifted by like flotsam. Hunk meandered through the building until a table of veggie plates and sandwich wheels greeted him with the same lackluster warmth. Thoughts like a nagging hangnail, he was a problem-solver. One missing from a tray of lilac-frosted cupcakes with the plastic greasiness of processed food and the sugar rush led him to his first and worst conclusion.

                He and Shay walked out together, sunshine and the noise of children playing in the park displaced by her unhappy face. They settled on an ad-riddled bench.

                “The Coalition sucks. I’m not some kind of monster, volunteering is cool but…” She sighed, picking at the hem of her cutoffs.

                “I get it. And I don’t think you’re wrong, that place gave me the heebie-jeebies.”  

                “Oh, good. It wasn’t just me.” Her shoulders lightened, some of her tension bled into the ether.

                “Want to get frozen yoghurt?”

                “No.” Shay shook her head. “My budget’s a little more gas station.”

                “What, that’s my favorite, how did you know?” Offering his hand as he stood, Shay took it, the both of them holding a bit longer.  


	5. The Beginning

 

_Transmission 003_

_High priority. This is Princess Allura of Altea. I have found others like myself. They are allies. We will not yield in our resistance to the Galran encroachment onto this undiscovered world of Earth. Our foes employ strange tactics but maintain standard protocol until further notice._

                In the vast reaches of space, an apprentice of every school as an explorer and diplomat, Allura remained in stasis— mimicking a falling star to Earth had not changed this. Unconscious before impact due to her father’s interference and jettisoned to the depths of the sea, her mind and energy reached out for aid. The visions she received in return led to her rescue by a group of humans. But she woke up. And must do so again, every quintant, until the sorrow for her dear father abated, and striving toward any measure of his greatness was not so fresh a wound to touch. But what an impossible task to surmount.

                Who could ever compare to a martyr?

                The Galra would pay thousand-fold for their crimes, cutting down their invasion along with their leader. Not in revenge, but justice— only the herald of a beginning.

                Heart heavy, she left the communications console to finish off another packet of tasteless rations. Food goo the least of her favorite aspects of deep space travel, it was now familiar and one of the few connections to home remaining. With nightfall over the dome of her roof came alien stars, unrecognizable pinpricks dotting the void, and she was adrift.

                She was an alien.

                <Hello?> Lance’s silent voice, tight and muffled by distance, grazed against her mind before strengthening. <We’re holding a meeting at the Lab, it sounds pretty important.> The walls dimmed to a semi-opaque at her command and afternoon light streamed across the cream floor; Lance was perched on a tree branch outside the wards circling her dome. Her mice scattered at his appearance.

                <Why did Pidge or Prince Shiro not inform me?> In relaying information, the set of holophones were vastly more efficient. <All is well, have they been compromised?>

                <No, no, Hunk arranged the meeting, he called me first.>  A note of fatigue strained his voice. <And I can’t exactly text anymore with talons.>

                <How unacceptable, we must find a remedy at once.> The walls solidified around her as she changed out of her shift dress into her morphing suit.

                <What, you can make me human again? I could go home, I could…> Hope saturated every word yellow-green-blue until it collapsed into brilliant white. <But can I still help?>

                <I’m sorry, Lance. I cannot surpass the limits of my father’s technology. There’s nothing to reverse the effects.> She bit her lip, the canyon of her knowledge too deep for her liking. <I am no engineer but with the help of your friends, we should be able to adapt the watch to your needs.>

                As she phased out of her dome into the forest, Lance remained quiet. She questioned him as she slipped into the osprey’s form.

                <No worries, Allura, I— I understand.> He regained his usual humor as he continued.<We can’t fly too close together, we’ll make some lousy birdwatcher’s day… and thank you.>

                <Of course.>

 

 

                “That is some serious mental gymnastics if you think we’re going to call ourselves the Beast League.”

                “We are wearing spandex.” Pidge supplied with a cheeky grin in Shiro’s direction, swinging her legs against an empty horse stall. “But I do like fusiform better.”

                “That’s a real word and it doesn’t make sense.” Shiro pointed out. “My bet’s on animorph.”

                A chorus of disgusted groans rose from the group while Pidge spluttered on about how that _‘wasn’t a word at all.’_ On the fringes of their conversation, Allura noted Hunk’s hands clenching.

                “That’s the worst,” Keith grumbled from a pile of hay, scratching his nose. “At least mine sounds cool.”

                <No, it doesn’t.>

                “Okay, so now we’re all here—”

                <I like animorph, or animorphs, we are a group after all.> Lance cut in from the barn’s rafters.

                “Thank you, Lance, then it’s decided. We are known as the animorphs.”

                “Yeah.” Hunk waved his hands as if clearing the air of his impatience. “Great name, couldn’t be better—”

                “Whatever are you all talking about, Alteans given the morphing technology are called Paladins.” _They give their lives in the service of defending others._ Allura paused. _That won’t go over well._ “They are champions of establishing peace.”

                 “Cool. We’re not Altean.” Keith bluntly stated. A fistful of hay drifted down like sad confetti.

                While the twinge of despair at her misfortune smoothed over, Shiro rationalized. “True, but I like it, Princess. It’ll keep up convincing the Galra otherwise.” He gestured to Hunk’s anxious energy. “Hunk, you called us here, take the floor.”

                “Are you sure we shouldn’t talk naming conventions some more?”

                “We’re all good now,” Pidge said. “Our new name makes us into, like, superheroes.”

                “Right.” Hunk drew the word taut until it snapped. “Look, there’s this group — The Coalition — and they have meetings at the rec center sometimes. They take people and families in under the guise of game nights and community service. I think Shay’s in trouble and we have to help her. She doesn’t recognize her own parents or brother anymore, it’s all they want to talk to her about. She’s said no, but they’re pushy. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

                Tilting his head, Keith stopped whispering excitedly to Pidge. “Why would they want her if she doesn’t want to be there? She could be lying, trying to get you to join too.”

                “I trust Shay. I’ve known her for months now. She hasn’t changed, but her family did once they joined an organized cult proselytizing belonging. And they used to be like this.” He wrapped one finger cross another. _Like yelmores_. “I was there. It was a crowded room but the people were empty, like this unaddressed energy pushed them away from me.”

                <Whoa, that’s a red flag.> A strong aura of unease surged from Lance, converging and overlapping with other emotions. When Keith blew out his cheeks, glancing overhead in a mouthed ‘ _what_?’ along with his furrowed brow, Lance halted in preening one wing and diverted his attention to a private conversation.

                Allura shivered off the crawling sensation.

                “That could be trouble,” Shiro admitted, mouth set in a grim line. “If it’s nothing, then we’ll know for certain.”

                “I don’t get it — Hunk wants us to check out this club. On a hunch.” Voice deadpan, Pidge’s eyebrow slid toward her hairline. “Since when do you jump into a fight? Or anything, really?”

                “I have to help in any way I can. Something isn’t right. I can feel it in my gut.”

                “Are you sure that’s — ah!” Keith silenced himself, shaking his head after making a rude gesture toward the ceiling. “Never mind.”

                Jumbled and confused by the medley of emotions, Allura closed herself off to filter through this new information while Shiro spoke.

                “Six people attempting to join this coalition only to dismantle and thwart a recruitment meeting? We can’t all go. Lance you’ll run point. And Princess Allura, you’re too noticeable. This is about collection—”

                She interrupted. “I’ll not be simply cast aside. Pidge, may I?”

                Nodding as Allura reached out, Pidge’s eyes fluttered open once the acquisition was complete. “Wow, that’s really relaxing.” She muttered to herself. “Huh. That’s not weird at all.”

                Height increasing as her ears rounded, she focused on her hair darkening and the glow of her markings dimmed. “This should suffice.”

                “You make a great human but your marks stand out a bit.” Pidge shrugged. “Nothing blush and highlighter can’t fix.”

                <What do you even know about make-up?!>

                “More than you, Harvey Birdman.” Her face reddened. “My mom tried to get me into it.”

                <Touché.> Lance flatly conceded.

                “So we go for intel only—”

                “If it means roaches, I’m out.” Almost deflating, Keith bristled and balled his hands into fists, glaring into the rafters to match Lance’s stare.

                “— with no casualties, that means don’t attack anything. Under any circumstances.”

                “Am not, you didn’t get poisoned and nearly stomped to death, Lan— shit.” Keith blanched, clearing his throat. “Go on.”

                The pieces slid into place in a breath and Allura interjected before Shiro could take another. “A front that allows the greatest benefit to Galran needs as well as learning to camouflage among the uninitiated. It’s the perfect ploy.”

                They stared at her, wide-eyed. Hunk murmured between clenched teeth. _“I knew it.”_  

                “This is an unusual case. Nothing like any Altean has encountered before. The Galra have deviated from their burn-raze methodology, perhaps because they find humans suitable for harvest. We must exercise extreme caution regardless but this sounds like a purely Galran tactic at its core.”

                “The Princess is right – excuse me did you say _harvest_?” Taken aback, Shiro tensed with his mouth already warping toward disgust.

                “Normally Galra invade by brute force, stripping or harvesting the planet of its life source.” It isn’t a pretty reality but she would do them one kindness in ambiguity.

                “That’s sick.” Keith spat, tinged a bit green.

                <Let’s figure out this club first.> Lance offered, his voice shaking. <Before they go popping a straw in mother earth and taking a gulp.>


	6. The Hypothesis

_Dad holds me up beneath the arms to the high powered viewfinder, lassoing the brilliant stars to encompass my vision. He names their formations to constellations while Matt stands off to the side, lurking to hog the telescope again. “Let Katie have her turn.” My face scrunches. I’m Pidge. The way Matt calls me now, please understand. But how could he? It’s been so long. I crane my neck towards Dad’s face, but there I find a blur, shapeless to the whims of memory._

               In Pidge’s dark bedroom, blue light emanated from the computer screen and she growled under her breath at the stubborn lines of code. Something wasn’t right. If only she could figure out what. Asking Hunk and Allura for help again seemed like defeat. Grafting an alien technology to the unused smartwatch she’d given to a guy trapped as a hawk so he could participate in meetings to overthrow the bad guys, easy. She could totally do this.

               After some food.

               She hunted under the bed for one of her packs of vegetable ramen, plastic crinkling overloud while gingerly ripping open the packaging. The chill of nerves by parental discovery ingrained in her late night snacks ran down her spine. Picking up a used bowl with a faint whiff of old milk in it, she shrugged— clean enough— and plopped the brick of noodles in before switching on the electric kettle. She settled into her desk chair, knees drawn up to her chest as the text blended into horizontal skyscrapers. The lack of progress was getting to her. It wasn’t just for fixing Lance’s watch. Staking out The Coalition with inconclusive results wore her out. Missions like that always did. Blinking, she rested her glasses atop her head to grind both palms into her eyes. The grit remained and she swerved in the chair, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. With the weekend came another inevitable journey to the rec center. Truthfully, it was their only lead. Something they weren’t doing right, another flaw in the code. But each time they return empty-handed the pin holding her tongue loosened a bit more. It’s a dead end. The kettle light clicked and she flipped on her bedside lamp.          

               Eating in the dark was a little too cave troll for her tastes.

               Her nose was running from spiciness when a knock tapped at the door in the distinctive way of her brother. “Pidge?” Matt’s disembodied voice drifted through the door. She reflexively minimized her tabs and programs, swiping at her face before cracking the door open. A sliver of light angled down the hall, most of it blocked by Matt in his ratty flannel pajamas. “Your light was on.”

               “What, you’re a moth now?”

               “Yes.” He waved a hand in poor imitation of something flying. Definitely not a moth. “Still not sleeping well?” Or maybe so as he barged in.

               “Nah, I’m fine. It’s good… I’ve been good.” A lie. But her nightmares were infrequent of late, at least free of what usually plagued her. Watching people mutate and meld their bodies into various animals provided plenty of fuel. Serious kudos there. “Just the usual keeps me up now, studying, research, applying for scholarships.” Trying to stop an alien invasion, but she left that part out.

               “At this rate, you’ll get paid to go to school, Pidgeon.”

               “That’s the idea.” At his proud smile, she shoveled down the last lukewarm bite of noodles and waved at all of him. “Doesn’t your stipend pay you better?”

               Matt clutched at his front and buckled to the floor as if wounded in a plank of faded plaid. “I have a right to be comfortable.” He rolled over, rummaging around beneath her bed. “I’m home, let me relax.” A muffled _yes_ and he stood with a snack cake as prize, much to her annoyance. Ripping the plastic with his teeth, he stuffed the wrapper into his pocket. He shifted from foot to foot, sliding on an organized pile of scrap paper and detritus. “Besides, you live like this!”

               Pidge snorted. “Why are you awake?”

               “Jet lag and time zones.”

               “You’ve been here a week.”

               He shrugged, thoughtfully chewing. “I’m glad you and Mom are doing alright.”

                _I missed you too._ “I’m glad you didn’t show up with your anime body pillow at the airport.”

               “I threw that out.”

               “I don’t believe you.”    

               “I’ve changed a lot, I’ll have you know. And I’m doing something great. You’re the one still wearing my old glasses.” Matt teased, plucking the wire frames from her hair. Laughing as she swiped for them, he relented once an elbow jabbed into his side. “Ow, you don’t even need them.”

               “I think they’re cool.” Pidge tucked them back into their case and the tracks whispered shut as she closed the desk drawer. She frowned, unable to turn around. “Have, have you heard about The Coalition?”

               “Yeah,” Matt spoke like he was buffering, suspicion laced his tone. “But it’s not something I think you’d enjoy. Why?”

               “Nothing, just some kids at school, like, wanted me to check it out. They talk about it and with the posters at school… just curious.” She folded her hands behind her back, nails digging into her palm. Her voice steadied. “It’s community service, might look good to admissions.”

               “N-no, not he—” He sat on the edge of her bed, hunched down, hand grasping his forehead.

               “Matt?! Are you okay?” She knelt and his arm shook beneath her palm until he let out a sigh in a heavy gust.

               “Yea, I’m fine, sugar rush; I’ll lay off the chocolate from now on.” Shaking his head, a reassuring smile not quite as comforting as it should have been flitted across his face before it went grim serious. “Hey listen— trust me, you don’t need it. Every school would want you. Leader not follower, right?”

               “Right.” The hand not indented by half-moons raised into a goofy finger gun, gesture squashed by a sudden hug she returned.

               “You’ll be fine.”

 

 

               <I’m just saying I kind of want to step on you guys.> Lance admitted from the safety of his lookout on a telephone pole.

               <You have no idea,> Keith lamented. <I want to step on myself.>

               <Prince Shiro, we are all in position.> Allura said, effectively getting them back on track.

               “Don’t crawl around please.” Shiro warned. Translating speech from vibration took practice but eventually they made it work.

               Near blind, Pidge held onto the cotton fibers wrapped around Shiro’s leg also known as a sock. She worked hard, excelled in academics, and became the link of an ankle bracelet. A really disgusting one made of roaches. It was dark beneath his pant leg but roach eyes weren’t the best in the first place. A wad of gum stuck to the pavement, sweet like artificial strawberry and baking in the sun. The vibrations and scents as Shiro walked into the recreation center charted a decent graph. Sweat and body odor, stale in the hallways — fresh as he passed by an indoor basketball court — and catalogued unimportant to her human intellect, the roach brain was quiet under the cocoon of darkness despite how each step transmitted as muted tremors through the conduit of his legs.

               A door opened and within the room came a rush of vibrations, the sound of human speech. And a feminine voice overshadowed them all, aided by a microphone. Another meeting. Searching for any lead and discovering more of the same, Pidge settled in for a snooze fest.

               <Maybe we should spilt up?> Hunk ventured. <We could cover more ground that way.>

               <Great idea.> Keith squirmed next to her. At least it might have been him. Hard to tell. 

               <Anything for your _girlfriend_. > Pidge teased with more sass than the ounces her body currently weighed, giggling at Hunk’s weak protests when he stammered in her head about intel.

               <Hunk is right. Our methods need to differentiate.> Allura mused. <But we must find a worthy target.>

               Saturday morning cartoons as background noise taught her one thing. <But the gang always gets into trouble divided.>

               <You jinxed it.>

               <We will have to maintain vigilance then, quickly now, choose a leg.> Allura ushered them on and what might’ve been Hunk clambered over Pidge, confirmed once he made a distracted apology. <Seek out an insider.>

               <How are we supposed to know that?!> Keith exclaimed in a rush. A roach indignantly wriggled beside her. Oh that one was definitely him. <I can barely see anything as it is!>

               The band of light from whomever took the lead stopped widening beneath her.  Allura spoke again after a beat of silence.

               <We will be guided to our target. Position us straightaway, Prince Shiro, we’ll hit our mark true at your signal.>

               <Why do you call him that?> Curiosity got the better of her.

               <Is now really the time?> Hunk had a point but she did want to know.

               The droning voice ceased.

               “Oh shit.” Muttered under his breath, Pidge caught the swear along with the others.

               <What, what happened?> Keith cried.

               <Prince Shiro?> Allura inquired on edge, calling him again to no reply.

               Pidge dubbed it typical Shiro couldn’t respond without drawing attention and he milled about the room, various people accosting him with no doubt the same canned answers as when they’d tried this with Hunk. Only this time as Shiro made small talk they angled for his military background when he gave it, citing regiment and family of a different sort. He side-stepped them all with aplomb, feigning interest just enough to keep them talking while his unfortunate accessory waited for an opportune time to deploy.

               Whatever the signal, it wasn’t coming. Sure they tried but each time, Shiro would roll his ankle or jog his leg. Pidge bristled in annoyance as an antennae grazed her. The roach side of her concerned itself with the crumbs scattered on the linoleum. They must be near the buffet table. She ignored its desire to leave the safety of the dark for food. Shiro better have a goal in mind.

               “Imagine my surprise when you walked through our doors. The Coalition would love to have you, Shiro.” The feminine voice sounded lower than before but unmistakably familiar.

               <Missy! I recognize her voice, she’s gotta be one of them, too.> Hunk said, already moving downward past Allura and nearly off Shiro’s shoe. _If there was a_ _them_.  <She’s the leader here, it’s our best bet.>

               <Fall back. It’s too far, we’ll be seen.> Allura addressed Hunk — who returned with a grumble — then Shiro.<You must bring us in.>

               “So I’ve been told.”

               “I’m glad I made it to you before our other members convince you this was just for families,” Missy demurred, so odd from her rehearsed cheer. “There are plenty of other singles here as well.”

               “You caught me.” The strange rumble registered as polite laughter a moment after the fabric roof above their heads rippled with the strike to his thigh and Shiro rested his weight on one foot, sheepish. “It’s been a while.”

               “Many a match has been made here— well…” A quiet earthquake tumbled by them and Missy paused in its wake. “Not _here_. Perhaps while stocking soup kitchens or coordinating hikes at the lake. Strictly for the environment. Trust me, I’ll have your six.”

               A lull stretched on; Pidge tensed at the sheer vagueness. Roach senses did nothing for gauging a conversation.

               “So you make it happen? I’d say fancy meeting you here but you seem to own the floor, Ms. Iverson.”

                _Oh_. Shit.

               “With that line, of course. It’s nice to know some things don’t change.” Missy remarked pleasantly in contrast to her sharp steps, a click of heels as she moved close. “But we are off the clock so please, no need to stand on professionalism. I’m just Missy here.”

               Shiro angled forward.

               <Engage now!> Allura broke for the open air, Hunk a millisecond behind.

               <Uh, she’s not wearing pants. What, where do we—>

               <Quick, beneath the heel!> Allura ordered. <Keith, Pidge, hold steady.>

               “I could manage that, Missy… So how do you find the time for all this?”

               “Espresso shots.” Genuine laughter flowed between them before Missy backed up, all chances of escaping for a rendezvous gone. “As much as I’d like to ignore my duties here and we always have these meetings for new people— I have to conduct a private meeting of my own. Can’t be late. But feel free to take a look around.”

               Shiro hesitated by the table as she walked away unwittingly with Hunk and Allura in tow. Hopefully to reveal a nefarious plot and not a plan to host a dog day at the park.

               Now that they were away from its source, Pidge noted he’d grabbed a napkin of food. Something sweet. It towered above her at an impossible height. <Is that a brownie? A layered brownie?> She hated being ignored. <So. You and Missy?>

               “Nope. Not doing that.”

               Though her pester senses were running high, Pidge let it go.

               Faded chlorine lingering to the cement bowl of the closed-off pool, they were still moving when Shiro muttered into the near empty hall. “Shut up.”

               Keith’s laughter echoed in her head. Apparently he’d forgotten to leave her out of that too.

               <Guys, you’ve been in there forty-five minutes, everything okay?> Lance’s voice trickled down, strange how walls didn’t impede it. <Find anything?>

               <Thanks for the update. Hunk and Allura have a lead. We’re still with Shiro.> Pidge whispered.

               <Nothing unusual happening out here, still standing by.> Lance made an understanding noise. <I’ll check in with Allura.>

               Shiro kept walking and Pidge grew restless. <Where are we going?>

               “Behind the curtain.” It wasn’t much to go on but they could do nothing but wait until the vibrations ceased. “Let’s see what’s beyond door number three.”

               Door creaking on its hinges, Shiro walked inside, the air currents warmer as though the air conditioner passed over this room completely. A dusty odor wafted from the linoleum in greeting. Gears working as parts of a whole, the cockroach sensed the less than half dozen humans in the room like suspended molecules, an eerie stillness commanding the presence around Shiro’s oasis. A pall of wrongness wrapped around Pidge in their hushed murmurs.

               Until a steady vibration of footsteps approached.

               “Hey Shiro. I didn’t know you were part of The Coalition, it’s been a while.”

               Pure leaden dread suffused within her guts despite her only having an exoskeleton— she knew that voice. _Matt._

               “Yeah, it has.” Shiro ventured for a safer topic. “How’s grad school treating you?”

               “Fine.” _What happened to you?_ Awkward perhaps, but curt Matt was not. “Regris-0481 greets you.”

               <Wh-what is Matt talking about?> Ice froze her veins but not her body and she scurried across the floor on her mission to Matt, panic at the sudden bright light not her own so she willfully ignored it.

               <Shiro, what does that mean?> Keith said. <Hey, wait!>

               Matt’s shoelace was a speed bump to the safety of his cuffed jeans.

               “Regris-0481 greets you too.” For their confusion, Shiro betrayed none of it himself.

               Wrong answer.

               “Look, I don’t know how you got back here but go before another less forgiving sees you.” He hissed in a desperation she never heard before. “Don’t let them catch you!”

               Matt shut the door behind Shiro and she was alone.

               <So, why are we on this guy’s sneakers?>

               <Keith?! How did you get here?>

               <Hanging out on his other leg.> Keith, despite all odds, smirked. <I’m the roach version of a Ferrari. I’m fast.>

               <That’s so corny.> Pidge snorted. <More like a Camry.>

               <Wow. I’ve never been so insulted in my entire life.>

               <But Lance exists.>

               They both laughed, the tension abated but not gone, taut enough to choke out the words: _he’s my brother I had to..._ She trailed off, any number of reasons all true because she sought it.

               <I understand.> Keith said. <But if anyone’s a Camry, it’s Hunk.>

 

 

               Matt kept to himself and the stilted conversations peppered around made zero sense. With such minimal intel, Pidge’s anxiety manifested in rambling.

               <He said he knew what the Coalition was, not that he’d joined. I don’t understand. What does it all mean?> Pidge sighed, musing her thoughts aloud. <If I could talk to Hunk again maybe we could find a reasonable explanation; he said Shay’s family wanted her to join, but Matt didn’t. He warned me, why would he do that, everyone else wants to be together…>

               <Pidge. I don’t know. But we can figure this out.> Keith huffed. <If something would only hap— whoa, do you hear that?>

               She tried to focus, pinpoint a new variable, but before she could respond the door swung open.

               “Come. We Have An Opening, But You Must All Hurry.” The voice hurt her head, reverberating and beating upon her senses even translated through vibrations, its rotting stench tempting to the consciousness beside her own. A gurgle slipped from its forever open mouth as they passed by. She stifled a wail, her despair climbing to a fever pitch. Because a taujeer ushered her brother and the others out of the room, and Matt…

               Matt had no reaction at all.

               <What the hell.>

               This was just another dream. A nightmare where she’d wake up, safe but sweaty in her own bed with the blinking lights of hibernating electronics for company. She’d tiptoe down the stairs to avoid the squeaky floorboard, grab a water glass on her way to the bathroom faucet and ignore the family portraits where her Dad’s omission tried to return tendrils of fear to her steadying heartbeat.

               <Lance, where is Shiro?> Keith demanded repeatedly, his concern an untethered kite in the wind tunnel of her mind until an answer met them both.

               <He’s clear. And he’s not happy about it.>

               <The Coalition is Galra. There’s a taujeer with us.>

               <No way.> Lance’s disbelief rattled and bounced like a tin can. <We have enough recon, you guys need to leave. Now. Shiro’s words, not mine.>

               They were moving together, the taujeer’s legs nearly human from the cadence of steps. The taujeer could perform mimicry if need be, yet it moved at a slower velocity than usual— the past whump of its brethren’s pursuit sent a wave of nausea over her.

               But roaches did not feel such things.

               <We’ve entered an enclosed space. Hear that echo?> Her voice steadied, she thought out to both Keith and Lance. <Some kind of tunnel, something smells damp, maybe water?>

               <Come back.> Even at a whisper the urgency rang true. <Find an exit.>

               They were at an incline, her grip to Matt’s socks immune to gravity.

               <We’re heading down. Our ride hasn’t noticed us, we have to follow this to the end.> Keith reported. _It’s important to me_.  <What’s the time?>

               Nothing.

               <Lance. Lance?> He swore, the journey only leading them further down.

               Matt stumbled, gasping out in pain as his knees connected with the ground. He slipped attempting to stand, splashing water. Knocked loose by her own shock, Pidge scrambled back into her soggy hiding spot not a moment too soon as the taujeer helped him up. “Friend, Do Not Give In To Your Hunger. Relief Will Be Upon You Soon.” He walked faster.

               A hunger.

               <Oh no.> All-encompassing dread replaced the sentiment in her heart that Keith expressed aloud.

               In time they came to openness, a domed expanse above them. She braced for the screams. Wailing. None came. They were shuffled, Matt at the front of the line. He dragged his feet forward until he knelt down, an odd honeyed scent with something beneath it she couldn’t recognize, there and gone as he stood, shaky then calm. Another person sank to their knees. Waiting for the galra slug to slide from their ear into the glowing pool below. Matt fidgeted. As someone quietly wept, he did not speak to comfort them.

               Her brother curled up like an empty tomb.

               <Pidge, we have to get out of here. I don’t know how much time we have left.>

               Everything governed itself by rules: science, math, the gradual disintegration of her reality. Urgency left her. Only one thing remained constant. <No. I have to help him.>

               <We gotta go.> Keith called her name like a swear again. <This guy doesn’t want to be helped. Not now.>

               <What do you know, you never finished high school and Shiro’s safe with everyone else. Your family is safe. You have a guarantee. It’s not fair! I don’t care, I am not leaving him, I don’t care, I don’t—>

               <What good are you to him,> Keith yelled, <if you’re living in a matchbox for the rest of your life?! You can’t save him if you get trapped!>

               <He can’t— he can’t be Galra! Why would he come here, he’s the best person, the smartest guy I know even if he left me for school, he came back to check on us.> She sobbed and hated herself for it. Distantly, rational thought resolved her stance. <He came back and never did at all. I have to help him.>

               When Keith spoke again it was with a retrained gentleness, anger simmering on the edges of it. Dangerous. <I can’t leave you behind. Shiro’ll kill me. But I’ll take my chances… just know— you could save him, Pidge, but not as a freaking cockroach.>

               Numb and mute, she retreated after Keith when her hesitation buckled under logic. Tough as they may be, roaches didn’t have thumbs.

               <The taujeer down there, it spoke to my brother like they were friends. We’ve killed them.>

               <Keep moving, Pidge.> Keith veered off, hugging a jagged wall. <It was them or us.>

               < _They took my family. I’ll save him, save everyone. > _

_ <If we do nothing else. Okay. We’ll do it.>_

               The vastness of the pool’s chamber offered no favors, but eventually, they found a crack to squeeze past. Crawling with the walls compressed around them, when they reached the bubble of space underground, it’s a short–lived relief— her ample room was not enough for him. Buried alive, she dug at the edges of the tunnel, scooping dirt until her hands bled raw, trying not to hyperventilate in tandem with the one in her head. She hit something plastic and smooth. Keith’s transition was strangely quiet in spite of the reforming grind of bone and muscle. Curled at an odd angle, she reached out with a sightless hand, the skin underneath her palm tough and chitinous.

                _No, no, no_. An overlarge spindly strand brushed her forearm.

               “Wake up!” Her hand worried for her absent Star of David necklace, a touch of comfort while she prayed and pleaded. She’d worn the finish off her last pendant but an outgrown habit was still a habit. Steady breaths. Her heart stopped rabbiting through her chest at the subtle sigh of his exhalations. “Keith!”

               Garbled speech slurred out in a wave, he jerked, gagged at her hands so close to his face and she drew away as much as she could in the tight space. He breathed in the darkness.

               The world lifted up in a cadmium balloon. “No passing out. I can’t carry you.” She repeated his name, he shuddered. His skin warmed. “There’s a pipe.”

               “Show me.”

               She fumbled to guide his hand.

               “Get small.”

               Fuzzy vision duping a lenticular yellow glow where his eyes might have been, her diminishing stature cleared her head yet dimmed her eyesight so uncertainty marked the effect. She cast it aside, the earth rattling around her as he struck at the pipe. Over and over. A slam shattered it and she crawled through, still cheering when Keith followed suit a few minutes later. <We should head toward fresh air!> After a vertical climb, they tumbled out of the pipe to damp concrete.

               When she looked back with human eyes, Keith was a mirror of her equally wild grin. They were inside the recreation center, the pool drained and vacant and the prospect of freedom overwhelming her exhaustion. Wedged from view in the alley behind a dumpster because her life compelled itself nothing but glamourous, she held onto the image of a pigeon, the feathers tickling her across her torso. Keith’s deigned position as lookout ground to a halt, his own crow morph rippling an oily pattern over his body.

               <Pidge! Keith! Where were you guys?!> Lance shouted and it bounced inside her skull like a pinball. <Guys, I found them, they’re okay.>

               <What happened?> Allura asked, her quiet relief from a distant shore in a lapping wave at her ankles.

               “It’s a long story.” Her mouth still formed words as her bones hollowed. <A very long story.>

 

 

               In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she slept for ten hours.

 

 

               An alien nestled behind Matt’s skull. Pidge trailed him through the house like a ghost. Standing on the porch, he’d snuck off for a second helping of cereal after breakfast. Unlike years of conditioning, his immobile silhouette stood unawares before the early morning fog blanketing the line of trees in the distance, the empty slate of his face obvious now like he’d dropped the charade of expression. She scrunched her feet inside her house slippers. Maybe he was talking to himself, an entire conversation. A thousand questions stapled themselves to the roof of her mouth.      


	7. The Divide

                _Pizza, girls, astronauts._

_And I am oh for three._

_Hawks can’t digest pizza, not even the crust. Go humanity for evolutionary winning! Only people don’t have wings either. Girls are… well. Bad first impressions aren’t exactly new, but it’s not my fault this time! Telepathic birds aren’t sexy. And unless the space program launches a rocket full of  animals— if a red-tailed hawk even makes the cut— slim chances I’m reaching the stars anytime soon. Mom would say I’ve got a case of the blues. It happens. Fight the good fight, go down swinging._

_I just wouldn’t mind a slice of pepperoni first._

                Visualizing could only help Lance now. It was something Marina, his cousin—weirdo of the family and his favorite— had mentioned with this gleam in her eye of fad dieting or spiritual wisdom; his abuela frowning in not-so silent judgement with suspicions of witches or demons, whatever her condemnation flavor of the week at the time. Marina gently reassured her, the moment she was out of earshot explaining to him universal attraction and vibrational energy. As he got older the concept misleadingly had far less to do with actual stars and outer space. But anyway, the whole questionable visualizing garlic knots thing sustained him mostly full, mostly fine for dismembering a squirrel for lunch.

_Definitely the family weirdo now._

                Internally debating on whether his little cousins would find him cool or terrifying with three talons in favor of the latter, Allura paid a visit to his humble tree. Joking around his pleasant surprise only met with a vague psychic wave he impressively pinpointed as the emotional quotient of lukewarm mashed potatoes, he followed her to Pidge’s barn. One day, he would figure out alien humor. There’s no way Allura didn’t possess a magical laugh. His schemes cut short at reality as he herded with the rest of his friends down to The Lab.

                To say he and the hawk were of one accord for distaste toward bunker meetings put it mildly. Grey cinderblock walls and stark lighting. Not fun. Despite the security, Pidge hoisted herself atop the table next to him with her feet on the stool’s seat below, tapping out a steady nervous heartbeat as she leaned in. “You can still hear outside, right?”

                <I have ears like a hawk. Literally.> His quip about a mouse rustling hay in stereo above their heads died in his own. With her brother a confirmed victim of Galra control, he decided to try again. <There’ll be no surprises on my watch.>

                Her smile doesn’t come close to genuine, any further comfort he could offer stolen by his form. With half-moon bags beneath her eyes, she turned her attention to the center of their group.

                “I know it’s been a rough weekend so far but we don’t have the luxury of downtime,” Shiro sighed, broad shoulders squared as he addressed them. “Now that we know the purpose of The Coalition, we need to focus on slowing them down. The Princess and I have been formulating a plan since Missy’s numbers were the highest for recruitment—”

                “The Galra in her head. Yeah. Captain Sendak.” Boulder heavy, the foreign name fell just as subtly from Hunk’s mouth. Shiro and Allura shared a look but, heedless of it, he continued. “Sendak won’t stop until he uses her to take them all.”

                “With every event they have only gained momentum— fifty new members a month with over half committing to their cause. Worrying numbers, yes, but that’s for your county overall.” As if sensing the unease in the room, Allura paused. “It’s of little relief but it is something.”

                “Understatement much? Let’s take them out now, while we have the chance.”

                Inclined to agree with Keith this one time, Lance mirrored his sentiments wordlessly. The illusion of quarantine keeping his family safe outside the Galran plague’s bounds shattered. The Galra would only continue to spread as time wore on. At least Keith would be able to fight, unlike him.

                “How Keith? You can’t yell them off Earth.” Pidge’s brittle laugh punctuated a poor joke before wavering. “They have another base underground, dismantling that should be our top priority.”

                “No, look we know they’re planning an event,” Hunk said. “We can stop Sendak.”

                “Cut the head off the snake later,” Keith said, “it won’t matter if they have no place to get that quin-whatever stuff!”

                “You don’t have a plan! This isn’t some comic book. If Matt’s down there he’ll be put at risk or attack us and I— I can’t hurt him.” Slamming her hand against the table hard enough it rattled, a fat tear coursed down Pidge’s cheek, her face splotchy and red. “Mom can’t lose us too!”

                “Pidge, no. No one’s asking you to do that.” With a peacekeeping gesture Hunk reached out and did what Lance could not. “It won’t come to that.”

                “It might, you don’t know.” Pulling away from his arms, she sniffed, angry tears smearing the lenses of her glasses cloudy.

                “Hunk is right. Calm down, take a deep breath, you’re both arguing the same points.” Fingertips at the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache, Shiro spoke in what Lance could only imagine as his ‘professor’ voice. “Preventing more people from falling under Galra control is our main goal and we can do both with the long weekend coming up.”

                <Wait. So we’re splitting up the group?>  Fear tinged his words more than he meant to allow, the hours and minutes spent as zero-value air support all too fresh. <One goes after Missy, the other the pool?>

                The time for Shiro agreeing with him now, apparently, indigestion tagging along. Lance didn’t even like squirrels.

                Underground or distant. Lose-lose.

                “Yeah, why not? Much better than your hawk-in-a-trench coat plan.” _You know what…_  

                <It was one time and that was a joke.> But Keith never tempered his smirk, just lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

                <We will have each other in every fight, your back will not be unwatched.> Allura whispered, soothing blue at the edges of the lowering tide in Lance’s mind. She spoke to everyone. “As your holiday merits, people will flock in droves for celebration. The Coalition saw fit to purchase tents at the fairgrounds for games, signing up as many people as possible and inducting new members on site.”

                <What does that mean?>

                “One of the tents will hold a mini-quintessence pool,” Shiro explained. “It’s always easier to control a voluntary person.”

                <Worst dunk tank ever,> Lance said dryly.

                Pidge shivered next to him, her glance flickering to Allura before calming.

                “If we can weaken or destroy the pool, I’d name that a victory. But the one beneath the rec center could pose a problem even with most of their members at the fair. Keith, Pidge, you’re the only two who’ve been there before.”

                “Cross-referencing the center’s layout with our current intel should produce a detailed map,” Pidge said, scrubbing at her glasses with the tail of her shirt. “Projected on the holophones, any one of us could navigate underground.”

                “Then we could get in through the empty pool?” Keith offered.

                “I will join them, Prince Shiro. A Galran quintessence pool is never low risk.”

                Pidge nodded and hopped off the table, joining Allura and Keith to plan further. “We need to find a weakness…”

                “Between the three of us, the Galra won’t know what hit them.” Shiro clapped a hand on Hunk’s shoulder, who nodded too quickly. Despite this, Lance interjected where needed until they agreed on their roles.

                Plan settled and sorted, Lance perched on the thick fabric of Hunk’s vest up to glorious natural daylight. Pidge’s dog, Rover, wandered into the barn, greeting each of them with a hearty sniff and ferociously wagging tail. With a distracted pat, Hunk fished his phone out of his pocket, the screen lighting up with new messages. Rover glanced up at Lance with a curious snort.

                <What?> Lance said as Rover barked. <You don’t want me to pet you.>

                Immediately heeling when Pidge called him, Rover trotted out of the barn, leaving the two of them alone. Back and forth Hunk scrolled through a series of messages until Lance groaned in the most obnoxious way possible. Hunk cringed, tilting the level ground of his perch.

                <When are you going to ask Shay out?>

                “We’re just friends.”

                <I’m not Pidge. No bullshit. What’s the problem? You like her, so…> He grasped at straws. <Scared she’ll say no?>

                “I mean yeah she could and that would suck. But the Galra are getting worse every day. How can I make time for her or even be sure of...” Hunk shook his head, cramming his phone away.

                <Sure of… sure of her not becoming Galra, too?>

                “Never,” Hunk said, painting his resolution morose with the downturn of his mouth.  “What if I don’t come back from a mission at all?”

                At that he sobered. <There’s no guarantees. But what if you don’t die? Between you and me, I’d rather go with no regrets.>

 

 

                Dawn crept across the horizon, Lance gliding above the dull beeping and whining brakes of 18-wheelers towing in carnival ride parts, their mechanical skeletons rising with the efforts of ant-like workers in grey jumpsuits. Plain white trucks emblazoned with _The Coalition_ and unidentifiable tags interspersed with the fair proper, garish purple tents clashing with the standard red-and-blue.

                Until the sun broke cloud cover, Lance clotheslined himself on the slightly above-average goalpost he hovered near every mission. _Mediocrity, you just aren’t my type._ He landed on the bough of the copse edge gaining a vantage point to the Galra installation at the fairground’s perimeter, likeliest candidate for their prize at its heart. He should be with Shiro and Hunk. Not bargaining with the daylight to grant him some function. Or better yet, at the pool. With Allura on an open line— the week saw the return of his watch, its’ improvements transmitting his “voice” as a tinny robot recording— she informed him of the trio’s descent into Galran territory and their quintessence cache discovery.

                “Typical Galran hubris, underestimating their equals.” Soft tsk engulfed by a resounding crash and a distant pained hiss, her voice drifted away. “What are you doing? Let me see that.”

                “It’s a burn, whatever,” Keith mumbled. “Are we blowing this stuff up or not?”

                “I had no idea how humans would react to concentrated quintessence.”

                “He’s like a guinea pig.” Pidge’s snickering contorted to an audible gag. “Eugh, that’s disgusting.”

                “It’s nothing!” Keith sighed in exasperation.

                Their movements became white noise, his focus on the biggest Galra tent, its curtain parting intermittently. Something was off, like Lance forgot to make sure the iron was unplugged before he left. But he lived in a tree. An impossible yet nagging thought itched a place he couldn’t scratch. Scraping echoed, clawing and peeling from Allura’s line.

                <Gotta say, this is not my favourite. > Hunk admitted, already inside the tent with Shiro as flies. Lance counted the ins and outs of people until he gave them an all-clear.

                <It’s not so bad, I’ve never wanted funnel cake more in my life.> Shiro said, the process of morphing unfortunately easy to pick up via the holophone. “We’re in the right place. Huh, how on the nose— the pool’s on a pedestal, dead center.”

                “I wish you wouldn’t phrase it that way.”

                “Let’s pop the top on this hot tub. How are the others doing?”

                <They’re collecting the quintessence, it’s fine.> Lance lied by omission.  Another scuffle on Allura’s connection, the yielding of punctured skin to pressure. <Allura, are you guys ok, what happened?>

                A clatter and Shiro swore under his breath, Hunk stifling a queasy gasp. And Lance was but an observer to casual horrors, a distorted screech reverberating through the speaker while a viscous wave on the shore of nightmares hummed in the background. Human, hawk, the last sound before one overrode the other.

                “The pool, it’s teeming with slugs.” Shiro cut through the mixtape from hell, his voice urgent. “Hunk, think we could drain it?”

                “Working on it. There’s a motor back here, maybe I can stop it.”

                “Let me help.”

                Feedback popped over the speaker as Lance took to the air.

                “We’ve dispatched the taujeer but more will come for the remains.” Allura caught her breath, at once commanding. “This is all we can do. Hurry, with me.”

                Two men in Coalition t-shirts approached the Galra tents, another with purple buttons shiny with their logo. His stomach sank. <I think we need backup.>

                “We’re on our way.”

                “Still nothing.” Hunk complained in disgust following a rapid series of clicks. “I can’t pull the plug but I could up the temperature.”

                “Ask Allura would that work?”

                <If you could heat the pool water, would it kill the Galra inside?>

                “Pidge, hold this until Keith secures it.” Allura hefted something, her voice steady. “Yes, a high enough temperature would destroy them.”

                “Make it happen, ” Shiro said after Lance relayed her information.

                “It’s a little difficult with zero tools.”

                <Hurry, you’ve got incoming— these goons are checking in at every tent.>

                Lance soared overhead, the group making their rounds, beginning with the perimeter to his infinite relief. They lingered in conversation with those they encountered yet the closer they traveled to The Coalitions’ nexus, the more formal they became, each stop a sweep, heavy banners snapping in the breeze like their terse salutes.

                “Do it the old-fashioned way,” Shiro said, the crunch of bones realigning in the background. “What’s their ETA?”

                Solid muscle hit metal and sparks crackled. Hunk’s whoop broke off. <What’re you doing?>

                “Know your enemy, right?”

                <Two minutes,> Lance insisted. <You don’t have time!>

                “Make the damn time, argh—!” Collapsing metal yielded to a wet squelch.

                A body thumped against the ground and Lance swore, forced to watch as the men approached the tent.

                “Sendak will be pleased to find everything in order, our plans infallible. Why, perhaps I’ll get a promotion—” One of the men opened the tent flap and Lance discerned a second of the spectacle in mid-air. A banner fell in slow-motion to the ground. The pool folded half in on itself, writhing slugs in magenta goo spread like an evil slushie across the patchy grass, a 500-pound gorilla standing in the middle of it all.

                “ _Paladin_!” The man exclaimed, the other hissing in a cut off curse, a glint of metal.

                <What, what do I do, I don’t want to hurt them!>

                <Do _something_ , Hunk!>

                A gunshot rang out. Lance’s blood froze, human and animal yelling in tandem.

                “Are you stupid? We could claim that, the Visser will burn you for fun!” Baldy started forward and Lance dove, talons outstretched, raking lines of red in his wake, a human scream as he clutched at his head. Hunk stumbled but lashed out, twin lumps dispatched to the ground.

                <Cover Shiro’s face, run!>

                Hunk overturned the pool, rushing out of the tent with Shiro cradled in his arms like a football. Once within the forest, he set Shiro down at the base of a tree. Lance tore his eyes from the scabbed over gash on Shiro’s face to Hunk favoring his leg. _Useless, useless._

                <You okay, bud?> The words sounded strange, warped by the thundering of his heartbeat.

                <They shot me.> Hunk morphed out, frowning while patting the healed flesh. “Yeah, I’m good, I—” He slumped to the ground, panting. “And there goes the adrenaline.”

                <I messed up, didn’t see the gun, I didn’t—>  

                Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Hunk waved him off. “How’s Shiro?”

                <Just let him breathe.> Lance said. <You with us?>

                Hunk reached out in comfort when Shiro’s quiet wheezing mutated to a wet cough. Shiro turned and vomited on the strewn aside banner, his breathing ragged and wet, slurred gibberish in response to their gentle questions.

                <Lance, Hunk, where are you?> Keith yelled, Hunk’s eyebrows drawn together at the volume.  

                <Yeah, we’re a little banged up. But we’re fine.> He tried again, whispering. <Right?>

                Shiro flinched, shakily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

                <What happened?> Keith erupted from the trees, the blotchy pattern of feathers on his arms revealing his right arm covered in what looked like week-old bruises, ugly and purple. “Takashi, what the hell— your face!” He looked up, gaze flickering between the two of them, repeating himself until he got answers.

                “I don’t know. So much was happening, he fell, I don’t know okay.” Hunk wrung his hands. “Maybe he hit his head.”

                “But it’s healed, I don’t get it.” Keith slung an arm over Shiro’s shoulders, trying to help him stand. “I’ve got you.” Shiro stumbled when they tried to walk forward.

                <It should disappear when he morphs again, like Hunk’s bullet wound.>

                “I got shot. Thanks, Altean tech.”

                Keith’s mouth pressed into a thin line, rattling with thinly-veiled hysteria. “What?”

                “Hunk, Prince Shiro?” Allura rushed to them. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re both alright.”

                “Altean scum!”

                It’s not the words so much that do him in but the look of pure hatred, foreign and ages old.

                <That’s not Shiro.>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated; thanks for reading!


	8. The Prisoner

_Between catching my fall into a steaming vat of demonic escargot with my face, choking on space protein shake after inhaling a hearty lungful, and getting manhandled by my teammate-turned-gorilla like airport luggage, my morning couldn’t get much worse, right? At least the pain’s subsiding._

                 _{Humans have so many senses.}_

                 _Well… fuck._

                Feet dangling inches from the ground and numb to the impact of his back hitting a tree, Shiro blinked rapidly until two Alluras coalesced into one. Muffled, Keith cried out. One breath after another, his own gaze didn’t waver— all of his focus on Allura even as she looked away.

                “Surely you must see he is not himself.”

                <If I’d been faster, I could have—>

                Hunk cut him off. “Lance. This was no one’s fault— what do we do now?”

                Unbidden, his eyes followed Lance at his periphery, beyond the silver halo of Allura’s hair.

                {A… bird?} A voice in his head whispered, questioned, full of wonder. Lance, hair on end and his mouth split into a cocky grin as the rest of them removed their hands from the morphing device materialized in such exact detail it seemed no longer memory. {No, that thing was once human too.}

                The fear following that memory gripped him anew, overlapping the stunted spasm of his hands. This can’t be happening.

                And his mouth would not heed the command to warn them.

                “Hunk was with him, you’re supposed to have his back!” Keith seethed and Shiro involuntarily angled toward the source of this fury, a delight not his own, twisting smog with the breadth of his anguish. “This is all your fault. Just because he ain’t Shay—”

                “We wouldn’t have known about The Coalition without Hunk’s help,” Allura said, even and poised as Keith bristled.

                “Yeah, so? He would’ve been fine if—”

                Allura clipped him short, the pressure on Shiro’s chest lessening. “How it happened matters little, only that it did.”

                With the absence of her grip he slipped to solid ground and his eyes screwed shut, gulping down air.

                “I’m sorry.” Hunk said to Keith, sincere and unflinching against his spiraling animosity. “We’ll fix this, we have to.”

                “I hit my head, I’m fine now.” Those were not the words he struggled to form.

                “Shiro would never yell at Allura, concussion or no.” Hunk folded his arms, Shiro appreciating his shrewd observations with a gratitude beyond measure for the first time.

                “Could you not talk about me like I’m not here…”  _It isn’t me_ , Shiro thought, rendered mute to his own mouth. {Altean scum and four humans – one a juvenile – secured in Great Visser Emperor Zarkon’s name.}  Craggy leather like skin, inhumane gaze emanating a malice the slug treasured, lauded in Shiro’s terror at the vision. “Princess, how did your mission go— where’s Pidge?” Coupled with his true relief in a strange pyrrhic victory, the presence in his head radiated irritation at their silence. “We should get out of here, regroup.”

                As Keith nodded— silent in collecting the soiled banner and tucking it beneath his arm— they orbited outside Shiro completely in a private thought-speak discussion. Gaze steady on the scrap of cloth beneath Keith’s bruised arm, a longing pang filtered through him while his unvoiced distress festered.

                Allura turned to him as if she just heard his question and the entity staved off recoiling at her touch, the meagre wisp of concern parried from him before it could take hold. “It is none of your concern. Before any Galra bid follow, you will come with us.”

                The greenery compacting around him, Shiro trailed them, their bodies a moat where he became an island.

 

                Guided into The Lab past its cinderblock walls into the provisional bedrooms with a singular bed prepared among the three bare mattresses, Shiro, as a passenger in his own body, sat on the mattress’ edge, fingertips running over the patterned surface against his will. The Galra had departed in reticence during the interim of their journey— a sign he had surmised boded poorly. Blunt fingernails against tufted satin. He had not tried to speak to it directly.

                {Clearly you know me,} he paused, considering maybe he could reason with it. {Or are trying to anyway, but who are you?}

 _Scratch, scratch_. {I am Haxus-117 of the Bisura pool.}

                How curt, but it’s a start. {Can’t say I’ve heard of it.}

                {Without our aid, it is beyond the reaches of space more than ten generations your pathetic kind could ever hope to travel.}

                Condescension. Awesome.

                <Are we sure this is a good idea?> Lance said from Hunk’s shoulder, intense gaze fixed upon him yet the Galra held no qualms in meeting it. <I don’t like leaving him alone. How long can we keep him down here?>

                “As long as it takes,” Keith said.

                “We’ll watch over him in shifts.” Allura said. “As long as Shiro is monitored so he doesn’t escape, we wait. The Galra cannot survive on its own without quintessence.”

                No fear, no reaction. {Why should I? This is my victory.} Haxus dripped indifference to read his thoughts. {After I deliver all of you to Central Command, may Great Visser Emperor Zarkon see me fit to keep you as my Husk forever.}

                {Isn’t that overconfident—}

                He kneels, an immeasurable pride suffusing his chest to be half-hidden in Zarkon’s shadow. A nearby pool glows icy blue with pure quintessence. His teeth itch from proximity. Held down by Olkari with his arm at a wrong angle, Keith screams as his ear submerges beneath the churning surface. Unmoved by the tears on his face, peace overcomes the ensuing silence, ripping Shiro to the present.

                “He’s not responding, maybe he’s fighting it,” Hunk said, his face above him a blur against grey walls.

                “Of course Prince Shiro would fight,” Allura said, hand atop his own at a distance his consciousness couldn’t claim as touch. It meant nothing. “Never give in.”

                “Should we restrain him?”

                “Why are you looking at me?” Keith continued as a vague shape at his periphery. “I don’t just carry around rope.”

                “You own a crowbar.”

                “Fine! Look I’ll pick some up after work.” Keith said, his voice fading.

                Screams rippled through the void, warping until he could discern nothing more than the agony of those he meant to protect.

                {Get out of my head!} He swore a blue streak. {Stop!}

                He shuddered and— the movement his own— reached up to claw at his ear. Aborted before he could carry out his intentions, his hand jerked back into his lap.

                {You are mine. This is your only future.}

                No.  _Never!_

                Allura’s hand warmed against his skin, he blinked and the world cast itself into momentary darkness.

                <Now we know for sure.>

                He couldn’t move, but his vision cleared.

                “I don’t know what you’re going through but you’re in there, somewhere. Just hold on.”  Keith’s jaw clenched, the muscle jumping under the skin. “I’ll pull that thing out of your head myself, Takashi. I swear I will.”

 

                Granting him a wide berth in practice, Hunk had volunteered for first shift in the bunker. Hunk attempted engaging in conversation but the Galra had deemed it unimportant, and ignored, he stationed himself beyond the door. Haxus and the parts of himself he could keep spanned a canyon’s gap— the lifeblood of annoyance generating from Haxus each time Shiro had goaded him during a prolonged silence tapered into pinpricks. Even with a united focus, the low tones of Hunk’s voice drifted unintelligible from the other room. A beat of quiet then laughter. Lance.

                {It’s a liability.}

                What a pity. {You don’t understand anything about people.}

                {I know you care for them. What a weakness.}

                {That weakness saw you for what you are— why you’re stuck here.}

                {Not for long.} Haxus said as distant thunder in foreboding heavens, that certainty rolling across his mind.

                “Hey, it’s about lunchtime, you hungry?” Hunk asked, leaning in the doorway.

                Apathy coupled with ravenous hunger snapped at his heels, herding Haxus to respond. “Sure.”

                “Cool.” Out of sight, his voice carried. “Hope you like sandwiches, Pidge managed to smuggle a whole loaf of bread down here.” He spoke again, low enough that his words grazed the edge of his hearing. “I know but he’s just been sitting there like a statue.”

                Hunk returned with a paper plate, and taking it without a word, Haxus bit down on the sandwich.

                Peanut butter.

                {Sustenance,} Haxus said, {is not bad.}

                Shiro couldn’t really taste it anymore but a PB&J was what it was.

                “Look, I know me and you were never really close and you’re not really you but, I’m here for you.”

                Say something, anything. “Your care for Shay won’t matter.” Haxus used him as a mouthpiece, mocking the thoughts Shiro couldn’t express. “She’ll fall as the rest of you.”

                “Maybe.” Hunk paused in the door. “But I have to try.”

 

                Princess Allura watched over him, an invaluable reprieve, her presence distraction. An image of starlight faded into murmurs of conversation. Dimly, he heard her tell Lance she dealt with the quintessence. Backlit glow of the holophone making him squint in the dark of his bedroom until his eyes adjusted, Allura explained opening a tiny pocket of space to store the quintessence. {Where?} Haxus demanded with an edge of greed. That fire in her eyes, the determined set of her mouth tore away, shuffling through memory upon memory until it settled on a nondescript corner of the woods, a pins-and-needles tickle like a deadened limb awakening, technology he couldn’t begin to understand revealing the smooth cream walls of Allura’s home. Retrieve the stolen quintessence, gain Altean tech, return hailed a hero.

                A plan, a way forward into action. Into the betrayal and capture of his team. He could warn them. His teeth ground together.

                {As if I do not know what you are attempting?} Haxus said. {The moment you think it, it becomes my own. There is no besting me. Give in.}

                He kicked out, his bare foot slamming against the concrete wall. “Protect the dome!” He shouted, pain— the brunt shouldered by Haxus— lancing through his consciousness as a dull butter knife.

                {Stupid human.} The hurt intensified, Haxus regaining his strength. {You’re part of the Galra Empire now. Pain will teach you.}

                <Shiro?> Lance flew in, Allura a step behind him. <What’s wrong with the dome?>

                “I heard you, worry not.”  A flare of white-hot anger simmered behind her direct orders as her gaze dropped. “You must morph, heal your wounds.”

                “I would suffer every agony than follow your command,  _Altean_ ,” Haxus hissed like a curse through gritted teeth. “I give it all for his consciousness to bear and feel nothing.”

                “Lance,” Allura said, never breaking eye contact, “what do we have to mend Prince Shiro?”

                <Maybe there’s some ice in the mini-fridge...> Lance suggested, hawk stare leveled at him as Allura left the room. <Galra slug.>

                Shiro’s entire existence formed the throbbing ache stemming from his foot.

                “Abomination.” Shiro felt his lip curl. “Once we conquer this loathsome planet, we’ll destroy every creature like you.”

                <Don’t worry your slimy head about it.> Lance taunted. <I’m one-of-a-kind.>

 

                Haxus crinkled the plastic of the bagged ice until the it melted and, without use, let it drop with a sodden slap against the concrete floor. Hobbling on one tender foot, he peered into the rest of The Lab.

                Empty.

                A cockroach— brick-red and shiny— appeared in his mind and his internal organs shifted, the endless grey floor rushing to meet him as though sky-diving without a parachute. At the top of the stairs and squishing through the crack in the door up to the barn, Shiro tiredly willed himself ask what Haxus hoped to accomplish like this.

                {Inferior human, freedom! Then my plan can— what is that?!}

                It burned, his antennae twitching uncontrollably.

                <Five minutes, slug, we left you for five minutes.> A curved girder pinned him in place.

                <N-no— how?!>

                <I could see a flea on a mouse’s ass, a fat roach is nothing. By the way, I suggest morphing out this time, that’s bug spray.> Lance said, the grip on him tightening. <Pidge thought ahead and hosed the door.>

                <The child… I’ll kill you first! I promise!>

                “I got him, it’s okay.” Keith’s voice surrounded him, the ground shuddered beneath him with a thud and he’s cupped in the pocket of his brother’s hands.

                <Shiro, I need to stretch my wings,> Lance said. <But I’ll be back, alright?>  He’d cooped himself up for hours and hours on end watching him, an unpleasant job and no doubt boring, eating out of Tupperware filled with raw meat instead of flying free. And he meant to return, Shiro with no doubt of that now.

                Carried to the bunker, the light-headedness faded as he morphed out. Left to stare blankly at the pock-marks speckling the cinderblock walls, it was his own small victory at least his foot healed— one less thing for Haxus to wield against him.

                Dumping his backpack on the floor, Keith cast a weary glance as he removed a spare change of clothes for him. Handing Shiro a jar of his favourite still-warm soup, Keith spoke to him and him alone, Haxus surly or mute in response as he ate.

                After a warning, Keith stomped up the stairs, Lance with him when he came back. The contents of his bag tumbled as he sifted through them and he stuck the thermos on the table.

                “Hunk said you ate this stuff, so here.” Keith said, unscrewing the lid after an awkward pause. Lance chirruped, turning his head to the side in a human gesture of confusion. Keith needed to work on his people skills, or hawk skills as it were— the pinkish-red contents summarily tossed onto a paper plate— but the corner of Keith’s mouth twitched with the inklings of a smile at some private joke when he turned away.

                After binding Shiro’s hands, he settled on the mattress, the hours lengthened. Exhausted from fighting within his own mind, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

                Shiro woke to a scratchy blanket thrown over his shoulders. Still in his ugly red work polo Keith slumped over in an identical blanket, a textbook spread over his lap. He snored.

                Fear clawed up his throat.

                {I’m not going to kill him. He’s useful to the Empire alive.}

                Haxus tries to escape again, this time, as a fly. He reaches as far as the barn’s loft before becoming infinitely tangled in a spider web.

                Keith found him covered in hay and broken silk strands. Once in the Lab, Haxus changed into the laid out clothes and used the mouthwash and deodorant, much to Shiro’s relief and suggestion. Keith’s tweezers remained on the bed, but he laughed inside his head anyway.

                {What?} Haxus scoffed. {That’s not how it works. Any particulate matter would result in instability of the Husk. You’d go insane.}

                {So… No difference?}

                Ignored, Haxus wiled away an hour sulking.  _Planning_ , he corrected him. But Haxus had underestimated the Paladins and Earth.

                He shuffled through Shiro's memories— facts about animals he'd learned in third grade; Keith at age five clutching a grocery list, buckled into a shopping cart lest he wander off in search of sugar; Shiro marching the aisles happily in light-up sneakers, grabbing a box of whole grain cereal off the shelf; breaking his arm and his friends drawing hearts around his crush’s name where he’d signed, part of his summer spent sweating and frantically pulling on shirtsleeves. Nights steeped in nostalgia looking up at the stars through his junior telescope burned in afterimage. Played back crystal clear, he was too young for this intense reminiscing.

                {Are you looking for something in particular or are you just browsing?} 

                Weight of his carryon lifting from his shoulder, the slam of Keith’s bedroom door dissolved to the hush of vents circulating air. He was in the Lab, not wearing civilian clothes as though they were a foreign concept, accustomed to uniforms and missing his family like a bone-deep ache.

                {You were a soldier.} Haxus mused. {We are quite alike, you and I.}

                {No. Signing away four years of my life is hardly comparable to this blind faith in your empire, in Zarkon.}

                {Soldiers carry out orders, our Vissers guidance, yet our success is with Zarkon’s Will.} Haxus said. {Natural order divines and concludes us as its’ masters. We’ve claimed and conquered planets; the Olkari, the Taujeer at our whim, to their benefit.}

                {A total loss of culture, real beneficial— you’re a plague.}

                {You killed every other comrade in that pool.} Haxus countered. {And you crave to know more of the universe.}

                {For exploration, not suppression!}

                {You don’t believe in wholesale peace either, for an Altean sympathizer.}  

                {It’s easy to sympathize with the people that don’t introduce themselves through violently exercising tyranny against alien royalty and regicide.}

                {Hmph, no wonder we’ve had such ease in recruiting your kind… very well.}

                Haxus fell to silence.

 

                No control in a controlled environment will be Shiro’s life for the next four years. Adrian is about the only real friend he’s made at basic, a small miracle whatever grants them an assignment at the same base. Routine, routine, routine. By now, it’s easy to wake up early though he still needs coffee to fully shake off all lingering drowsiness. With the perspective that everything is an opportunity here, the second he gets permission it’s breathing and sleeping college credit classes.

 

___

 

                “Some of the guys are going off-base, want to join?”

                “Nope.” He looks up to Adrian standing in the doorway, not quite in or out. “I need to write a paper. And study for a final. Some of us aren’t as smart as you.”

                “If only you were so blessed.” He laughs when Shiro rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m going to head out, see you later, Shirogane.”

 

___

 

                Then its Adrian’s turn to explain biology that flies over Shiro’s head much like the ear-splitting jets which he had fueled earlier. Every time he complains about the smell, Adrian reminds him he should’ve taken the recruiter job. And maybe he would admit he was right, but then Adrian’s insistence that he doesn’t mind wouldn’t lead to making out. He’s no dummy, so he keeps his mouth shut. Sort of. Anyway, when it’s his turn to explain his latest course, each question helping him retain information, Shiro gets his own form of payback in Adrian’s blank look.

 

___

 

                His military contract is up, one degree down and he’s been lucky enough to have eaten two portions of what might be—no, is most definitely— the best macaroni-and-cheese on the planet, courtesy of Adrian’s mother. Life is pretty good. Then he gets a phone call about Keith.

 

___

 

                “You discover the secrets of the universe yet?”

                “Not yet.” Shiro pulls the phone away from his new telescope so he’s back in the frame. “Maybe once you get here.”  

                “Yeah, anyway about that… you get the tickets?”

 _Please, not again._ His stomach drops. “You got caught up again,” he sighs. “Maybe Keith will want to go.”  
                “No, don’t put him through that.” Adrian frowns. “I was asking because I wondered if you’d rather go to the planetarium.”

                “You heard about that?”

                “They just built it, sounds like it might be something you’re into.”

 _Just a little bit._  “It’ll be crowded with the opening, and anyway I can come through in the clutch.” He riffles through a stack of papers on his desk before waving the printout in front of the screen. “Two tickets, not in the nosebleed section, non-refundable I might add and did I forget to mention they were on the away team side?”

                “Away team, too,” Adrian says. “You’re the best, this is why I love you.” Adrian’s smile grows in the face of Shiro’s blush. Embarrassed and annoyed the distance of a thousand plus miles doesn’t have the grace to erase the swoop of his stomach like a nosedive while flying, he mumbles it back.

                “Well, you are an easy date.” Shiro clears his throat. “Okay, so— your tour?”

                The screen spins in a dizzying circle of beige walls and hardwood floors before it centers on Adrian’s face again. “As much as I say ramen and TV dinners aren’t a food group, I have to admit being cheap has its’ benefits. Look at this. There’s even a dishwasher, I’m not sure it works though.”

                Adrian shows him the kitchen, panning over the dirty dishes left in the sink, plastic cups washed clean in a stack next to the basin— which Shiro will never understand— the gas range sparking violet flame when he twists it on then off in excitement, and a full-size fridge, bare save Styrofoam containers and a 2-liter.

                “Is that take-out?” Shiro says with a grin.  
                “I just moved in, what’s your excuse for prolonged avoidance of fresh food?” He yawns, jaw cracking with the force of it off-screen. “Or have you mended your ways?”

                “Nope, I’m beyond help… ramen is a food group, though.” Neither of them have been able to shake their early riser habits. “Get some rest.”

                “I don’t know how you aren’t literally made of salt and cholesterol.” Glassy-eyed in exhaustion through the video feed he manages to give him a look equally skeptical as it is concerned. When he speaks again the latter wins out, his voice soft. “Goodnight, Takashi.”

 

___

 

                Adrian steps beyond the gate, duffel bag unceremoniously dropped for Shiro’s arms. In baggage claims, Adrian runs a hand over his hair grown out at an unfortunate length.

                “I need a haircut.”

                “I like it, the curls are nice.” Shiro says. “What was wrong with your barber in North Carolina?”

                “Booked by the time I remembered— 4 hour flight and I swear I’m still seeing diagrams when I blink. Checked my bag twice and there still might be scrubs packed in there. No one warned me med school would ruin my looks.” Adrian shrugs his bag higher onto his shoulder, eyeing the conveyor while Shiro searches for a flaw in a leather jacket and acquired days old stubble. “Just roast me already. I look like a Muppet.”

                Once he stops laughing, he fixes his face and covers by reaching for Adrian’s luggage case. “I could trim it.”

                “As bald as the back of your head is, I guess so. Not like I’ve got anything to lose.”

                “It’s an undercut, it’s cool.”

                “Nah, you’re still a nerd.” Sky a concrete grey blanket of clouds, it mists them like a sprinkler as they step outside. “There goes the sunny California experience I wanted.” Shoulder-to-shoulder, Adrian hums as they reach the parking lot.

                “You still haven’t traded in the Charger?”

                Hand-in-hand once they get inside his car, Shiro taps the wheel to turn down his playlist. Arm stretched over the passenger seat as he backs up, he scoffs. “This baby? She’s as reliable as ever.”

                The sky opens up in sheets of rain and Shiro grins as the interior lights flash purple.

                “Oh no! Babe, it’s tacky as fuck.”

 

                “Don’t you guys eat food?” Adrian shuts the freezer door, distaste scrawled across his features. “Okay, let me rephrase— food that doesn’t come out of a box.”

                “Uh, no. Mr. Russell has been taking very good care of us.” Keith says, gummy-eyed in his pajamas and tearing through a silver wrapped breakfast bar.

                “If you’re not careful Sera Lee might steal me away,” Shiro teases from his post waiting for his breakfast to ding from the microwave because he’s not a heathen like his brother.

                “Isn’t she 70 years old?”

                “No, you’re thinking of Marsha.” He juggles the pop-tart between both hands.

                “Pop-tarts, really? Didn’t realize I was dating a real connoisseur of food.” Adrian says while Shiro bites his tongue to keep from saying something in front of Keith and settles for a peck on the cheek. “In front of your brother?”

                “He doesn’t count.” Shiro says at the same time Keith says, “I’m not a person.”

                “Hey, don’t ever say that again.” Shiro fights down that hot flare of anger at the missing years that somehow led him speak words like that so easily. “You don’t count because you’re family.”

                Keith grumbles under his breath in concession.

                “I think the solution might be meal prep.”

                “Meal what?” Shiro dumps an extra scoop of protein powder before he cuts the blender on in pulses.

                “Let me make y’all something.”

                Somehow Keith’s ears pick that up with the whirring of the blender. “Is it casserole?”

                “…No?” Unable to stifle that note of confusion, Adrian swallows down a laugh as Shiro silently mouths behind Keith’s back  _he’s adopted_. “One quick grocery run and there’s enough food for the next few days.”

                Keith whirls around in his chair, oblivious to Adrian mouthing back,  _he was fully serious, too_. “I call shotgun.”

                “No way.” Shiro says with finality, then frowns, masking a gag as he takes a sip. He spins the plastic tub. Peanut butter. This is what he deserves for not paying attention. “I’m not sitting in the back of my own car and neither is Adrian. You’re taking the backseat.”

                “But you’re both so tall— I need space.”

                “You literally couldn’t have lost this argument any faster.” Shiro deadpans to Adrian’s snickering.

                “So I won’t be a lawyer, not like mom and dad expected anything from me.” Keith chomped into the last bites of his bar, heedless of how Shiro freezes on the spot.

                “I have my doubts you two even know where the grocery store is.” Adrian cuts in through his hesitation, thumb running over his nape back and forth until his shoulders loosen. “Better get there before it’s grandmas-in-walkers hour and Takashi leaves me for the greeter.”

                And as Shiro chugs half his shake out of stubbornness, with Keith upstairs and the pipes creaking from water pressure, a feeling he doubts will ever lessen nests dead in the center of his chest. “You’re kind of amazing.”

                “I know.” Adrian replies, a confident, honey sweet smile he’s quick to ruin with a peanut butter laced kiss. “Eugh, gross how can you drink this stuff? Let me try it.”

 

___

 

                He is happy, or at least he pastes on a convincing smile each time the face he loves ends up on a screen in the palm of his hand once again— he really, really doesn’t want to let him go.

 

___

 

                “Why did I want to become a doctor?” Adrian asks over the phone one evening, his tired expression grainy from the video feed, dark bags beneath his eyes discernible but he can’t bring himself to tell him to rest. He’d taken his time to make this call.

                “You’re the kindest man in the world and you care about people,” Shiro adds, “And because your photo should be next to black excellence in the dictionary.”

                “Real smooth.”

                “I try. And it should be,” he insists, casting around for the right words; he practiced this. “What do you think about when it comes to our future?”

                “To be honest with you,” Adrian says, “after the day I’ve had I can’t think of anything beyond my pillow and tomorrow’s lab.”

                “After graduation I’d get a job as a high school teacher on the east coast, like North Carolina east coast.”

                Quiet spills from the other line.

                “It’s a little beneath you— what happened to proving alien life exists or, I don’t know… you’ve always been a dreamer,” Adrian says, guarded and all traces of banter withered away. “Where is this coming from? You’ve never said that before.”

                “I can change my mind, there are schools for gifted kids that don’t sound half-bad.”

                “This is something you’ve already been looking into— it figures,” Adrian says, brow furrowed and voice strained with heavy resignation.

                “Nothing wrong with being prepared.”

                “Sure, who am I to stop you, you’ve always done this. Whatever you want to do, you’ve done it, and it’s been fine for you— you apply for a program on the other side of the country, you taking in your brother, I’m along for the ride.”

                He sucks in an unsteady breath. “You’re upset about Keith.”

                “Of course I don’t begrudge you for looking out for him, he’s lucky to have you and this has nothing to do with him. But I can barely keep from living out of a vending machine right now, okay?” Adrian sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not sure I’m ready for who I’ll be a year from now that I’d even support you in this. Let’s say you do, what if it sucks— what happens when you hate it here?”

                “Then I figure out something else.”

                “And it only works for two more years and then after that, then what? I’m busy with a residency I might go out-of-state for and I can’t be there for you with third year and clinical rotations. I don’t want to be the reason you’re miserable or bitter; I’d like to have a say in that.”

                “We could make it work. I mean distance hasn’t killed us yet,” Shiro says.  _I want to do this to be with you._  “Why is this such a big deal?”

                “I’ve admired your single-mindedness towards your goals for so long. But I’m drowning.”

 _My goal was you._  He sits heavily on the edge of his bed, gut-punched and anxious. “How, how are you drowning? I want to help you.”

                “We worked out and the distance isn’t killing us, but I’m putting in all the work. You’ve never planned or attempted to come here, and I get it, but I have to love you enough to change and I can’t keep up. ”

                “So what are you saying— you don’t want me around.” He’s chasing, plucking out thread after silver thread spun out before him like cording only to discover it wasn’t a tether at all.

                “You really want to do this— you introduced me to your parents as a friend, when was the last time you asked me how I was doing? How my day went, anything?”

                “That was years ago, and I’ve been sorry for it a thousand times, but what’s once more— I’m sorry.” His throat tightens. “So you’re upset because I’m not asking you polite things people say but they don’t really want to hear.”

                “Sometimes it’s nice to know you care about the mundane stuff in my life, too, and you’d want to hear about it anyway,” Adrian says. “It’s not the distance. Shiro, you could be right next to me but what does it matter when you’ve tuned out ages ago.”

 

___

 

                Every fragmented tug, it’s a movie he played back many times before by himself, weighted on his chest like he’s had this conversation before. Because it already happened. His hands grip the blankets like brittle and dry leaves beneath his palms.

                And he wants.

 

___

 

                Flora alien to them dotted their surroundings, branches overhead a curling network intersecting with the swirling sky, perfumed flowers heady and sweet. Evolving before their eyes, a flower blooms and withers to fluorescent ash as they pass by. The humidity swaddled clammy-hot-cold against their skin. Hands not their own— three-pronged, the color of desiccated lemon peels, and rough— shook before their vision. They blinked, the illusion faded. Fists pumping, they ran towards home. A spiral, a house, a glimmer of projection. They leant weary for support against a thick tree trunk, smooth texture inherently wrong. The winds echoed, hair ruffled with a breeze they cannot feel against feverish skin.

_“Prince Shiro.”_

                The dome was here. Allura’s home, the quintessence must be inside. The terrain shifted with every haggard step. Step up, stumble down. Their mouth is parched. In the space between blinking pounded their heartbeat like a drum, a drone, a hope.  _Let me in_. Half a dozen steps forward and they brace for the step inside salvation. There’s nothing. No chime, no standard issue beige walls, no curved ceiling— only the forest. On the horizon, far beyond that through the gaps of trees, they glimpse the quintessence glow, beautiful, impossible burning as an eternal pyre.

_“Takashi.”_

                No matter how far, they must breach its’ silvery rim, but their spirit faltered and upon their knees, the void pressed against them. Though they leant away, it swallows him whole.

                {I want to go home.}

 

                On the precipice of nothingness, the sheer drop spanned above, below and inside him. A blanket of stars spun out before, behind and through the expanse of pure shadow, shimmering an ebb and flow like the tides, like a heartbeat. Wonder suspended in his lungs, the depths of space tactile and warm at his fingertips. A moon in perigee eclipsed a hairs breadth above Shiro’s head yet terror eluded him.

                {I want to go home.}

                Unlike the malice typically coating them, the ragged words were intimately familiar— he turned to the voice of his own volition. A cowed creature faced him, sallow eyes set above an aquiline nose. Shiro’s will clenched his fists to his sides. Haxus.

                In a breath of recognition, those same fists swung a crackling livewire of relief in connecting with flesh. Haxus reeled from the blow while he stood tall. “Why, why did you force me to relive that?”

                “Don’t suffer under the disillusionment you were the first to value a comrade.”

                “You know nothing— that was my best friend and I loved him.” Strange blood viscous and cool against his skin spilt over his knuckles.

                “You are a soldier, it was our strongest connection.”

                “I’m not a soldier!” He snapped, landing another solid hit. “I did what was needed!”

                “My manipulations to reach the dome without your distractions overtook my expectations.”

                “Don’t expect anything, you sifted through my head!” He struck him again. “Fight back, monster!”

                “Death be quick to me as a warrior— but no, I am but a common foot soldier, left to languish away in the most pathetic of circumstances.” Haxus writhed with pangs of hunger, madness babbled at the knife’s edge of his speech. “I felt them die, I could carry on the mission. But we delay the inevitable, the fugue. I am to perish alone.” A clarity lit within Haxus’ eyes. {I am beaten. And you still fight.}

                “Damn right.”

                The world shattered around Shiro, churning the ground to jagged edges, each face a nightmarish visage and brilliant white momentarily blinding him.

                {I’d expect nothing less, paladin.}

                Jerking forward as his eyes slip open to a flash of Keith and Allura, sight became meaningless; he was outside himself completely— looking down at himself prone on the thin mattress, Keith crowded around him while Allura nudged Keith back. Her hair tumbled off her shoulders, that shimmering curtain he could phase through at once as though it were viewed from a crystal— fragmented into particulates from every conceivable angle.

                His body shook with tremors, half-numb.

                Under the depths of an oceanic pool, in a blind peace the currents push— his fellow Galra are with him. He subjugates his first husk through his own wonder, in green leaves, a dense forest, power. His commander evacuated their troops to harvest the planet and a shriveled expanse remained where once the Olkari flourished and resisted. The Olkari’s despair looped his last sunset as a fond memory. En route to Altea as reinforcements, the chain-of command take away his Husk, sending word of a vital mission. Galra curl around and away from him.  _You have been promoted._ A sunrise on Earth, peeking through the similarly colored trees grant him a rare opportunity not even Zarkon could claim.

                Victory or death.

                Within and outside himself, celestial bodies swam at the edges of Shiro’s vision like a film grainy with age. Dread rotted in the pit of his stomach, portending an inescapable destiny. Fearsome and divine.

 _No_.

                Awesome and terrible, beyond a scale he could comprehend, the open maw of a lion’s jaws stretched to claim him.

_It is not your time._

 

                Sat up in a rush, Shiro blinked on his own, not a thought behind it, but it was his. Everything was.

                “Prince Shiro?”

                The world became solid.

                “I’m here, Princess, I’m back.”

                Keith glared at the floor where Haxus had curled and shriveled to dust.

                “It’s over,” Shiro said to the worry engraved in Keith’s face. “I’m okay,” he lied, warmth gracing his skin for him alone as he was guided out of the Lab and into the sunrise.


	9. The Stranger

_Takashi told me later the pale purple slug that crawled from his ear wanted to steal back the quintessence and turn us in to Zarkon himself._ Victory or death _, it said, but as it crumbled before my eyes— with every oath and action and curse running through my head— I could relate. I would do anything to stop this, to keep everyone safe, to save my brother, just as he would for me. Roles reversed, when there was no room for error, I’d let the team down— but not him, he’d broken his foot to resist its’ influence._

_I hate the Galra._

_I swept up the ashes and threw them out with no remorse— too good an end for it._

                On a morning shift at Mamore Auto Company, Keith dumped a pair of antifreeze flecked gloves into the OSHA can, though the scent of chalky rubber followed by a sharp toxic sweet note clung to his hands. He resisted the urge to swipe them against his black pants. Pidge had made a joke about Allura, make-up, and a missed opportunity for a discount because of where he worked. He understood it after she explained it. He stepped down again, lid lifting to reveal the can full of pig wipes and rubber gloves. Not powdered alien remains.

                Like a switch flipped, Keith woke up that morning rubbing the crick in his neck earned from sleeping on the couch with extra force. Shiro’s fine. His eye bags were lessened and, though it took Shiro a reminder to swap seats, he actually ate the instant oatmeal Keith had placed on the table. So he placated himself with Shiro’s diminutive response when he finished making a protein shake — shot of old-timer vitamins or whatever added in — but at least he’d gone for a run before work today. He’s okay, like he said. 

                With his workspace free of liability hazards as the morning manager put it, Keith roamed the polished concrete floors dodging customers as he stifled a yawn behind his palm. Vaughn never came in before 3 so he kissed lurking around the service section goodbye, that yellow Jeep needing brake repairs the kind of job he might be guided through with his supervision. Tony, his regular boss, left him to it after a back-and-forth volleyball match with Vaughn.

                “Why don’t he take your job?” Tony would say.

                “He don’t know nothing— I’m the brains, he’s the brawn.” At his own joke, Vaughn would laugh, brassy and warm but not unkind while Keith’s face heated against his will for the hundredth time.

                “He make too much trouble, you know where to send him.” Tony would say, bossy though Vaughn easily had ten years on him.

                “Back to shelving hell, I know, he’s out of your hair.”

                Low and out of sight of the customer waiting room, Tony shot them the bird as he’d made his exit, top of his head shining with the gleam of fluorescent lights.

                “Okay, kid, let’s teach you something.”

                Mamore never really got swamped, but he’d rather guide customers with his arms bolted down by his sides covering the grease marks on his polo than spend an hour restocking shelves, a task leaving him pristine with his manager making rounds and hovering nearby until they retired to the breakroom.

                It’s especially quiet this morning, the welcome bell chiming him out of another spiral of Shiro’s vacant eyes and millisecond late expired smiles. Pidge said Matt doesn’t remain in the moment sometimes. He’d never have the heart to tell her otherwise.

                Maybe nothing ever changed.

                Carrying a ten high stack of headlamps, he froze in place, taking a gracious step to the side.

                “You can, uh, go around—” Keith said, glad he didn’t have to paste on his customer service smile when the shadow didn’t move. “Can I help you?”

                “Oh. What a kind tower of lamps…” The shadow said, familiar voice a dreamy murmur. “You got air fresheners?”

                Keith rattled off the aisle number, gut twisting along with him as the customer darted around the corner— the boxes sliding a warning tilt before he corrected his balance. Keith caught a glimpse of blond hair and a tall figure.

                Not him again.

                Hunkered down by car lighting, Keith took idle peeks out of the store front windows, plate glass blocked by one giant sale poster. Not to be robbed of glistening asphalt, the suns’ rays shimmered over a car’s metallic grey paint job, pendant hanging from the rearview, crystals casting spectrums of color onto the dash. The back of his neck prickled.

                “Keith, it’s an emergency— cover for me? Thanks, you’re the best, back soon!”

                With Jim out of the door before he could answer, Keith trudged to the registers. He doesn’t get a chance to ask if it’s their daughter Ivy again, but he would have done it anyway. Jim’s cool, the one person who wouldn’t come up with a fake emergency to pin Keith with the worst aspect of working here. He chewed the inside of his cheek, how best to say _have a nice day_ in the right intonation cycling through his head.

 

                “I can take the next person.” Beth said, angling one drawn on eyebrow in the next customer’s direction. True to form and thankfully low on noxious “new car” scented trees, the blond stranger hemmed and hawed at the kiosk pawing at keychains until Keith’s line cleared.

                “Hello again,” the guy stepped up and exaggeratedly squinted at his name badge as if he didn’t already know. “Keith.”

                He stuck to the script. “Did you find everything at Mamore alright today?”

                “Me, yeah. I did.”

                “Okay.” Keith glanced down at the empty papered counter. “What are you buying?”

                “Right uh...” He slapped a blue keychain on the counter. “Here.”

                The lights inside the bauble flashed as he rang it up.

                “This isn’t an air freshener.” Keith said with more relief than he should’ve let slip, the register dinged. “Your total is two—”

                “Wait, I’m not done. I had to— decided to, diversify my interests.” A packet of microfiber towels and _ugh_ , an air freshener tumbled onto the counter. “I just love these little things. I even found this baby.” He held up a shiny foil pack, the card inside shaped like a hula girl. “I think her hips move.”

                “I did not know we even sold that here.”

                “Amazing, right?”

                Keith hummed in acknowledgement, the code refused to register.

                “Your directions were great, Keith. Right where you said they’d be— Aisle 9.”

                Again, nothing. Flipping through the inventory binder, he tugged his sleeve down, hiding the edge of his burn. He typed in the code manually.

                “I know my aisles,” Keith said as he ignored Beth snickering. His brow furrowed. He had overlooked a number, miracle of bagging the tropical scented nightmare at an end. “Total’s gonna be twelve eighty-four.”

                Even while the guy fished for his wallet, he rambled. Beth’s phone blared fanfare from a game. For Keith, exposure worked wonders in complacency and allowed him a partially listening ear as another crumpled bill stacked itself on the counter. “So maybe I could see you sometime?”

                Top-40 hits fifteen years out of date droned overhead as the cash dropped into his palm.

 _This is new._ He handed him the bag and receipt with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m attached to the counter.”

                “We unshackle him in twenty,” Beth quipped, ignorant to the panic hiding in his furtive glare. _Traitor_.

                “Cool, have a nice day.” Walking backwards, he winked. Keith’s heartbeat rushed in his ears. “See you later!”

                Beth’s face was entirely too smug— not a threat in the world would work on her. “You’re welcome.”

                He might be dying. “No, no— you owe me a smoke.”

                “So I’m just running a charity now? I thought you quit.”

                “Not today.”

 

                Sullied by faint whiffs of synthetic pineapple, Keith’s nicotine experience eroded to the filter.

 

                Wriggling from his pants and collapsing facedown onto his unmade bed, Keith yanked out the tie confining his sweat damp hair for humanity to greet him with a tepid handshake. The quintessence burn on his arm stopped itching after he morphed out but rather than fade, it formed a purpled blemish. Out of sight, out of mind. He needed a shower from wearing a long sleeve t-shirt beneath a thick polo after the unseasonably hot day. Instead, he marinated half under a quilt, one unrepressed groan escaping his internal mantra and violently flipping over when his thoughts wandered.

                His name was Taylor. So far he’d sent him a photo of his puppy— very cute with a sweet face, though compared to Buttons, anything was an improvement. Her bark had pierced their shared wall for several long minutes after he’d unlocked the front door. Taylor also left two polite messages, each tacked on by a smiley face at their end—just what did he want?

                Keith stared at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. He should study but his fatigued brain refused. Any and everything seemed more interesting, the sandbar of clothes littering the floor he’d no intention of picking up, the claw marks on the sill. Shiro hadn’t noticed those yet. Maybe his luck would hold out.

                Heeding the grumble of his stomach, Keith garbled a welcome home through a mouthful of soggy cereal when the lock tumbled open. Shiro hefted a bag of fragrant take-out onto the kitchen table while he shoved his empty bowl to the side and set plates out.

                “So how was your day?” With no reply, Keith found Shiro examining the whorls of the table. “Takashi?”

                He flinched. “It was good, normal, just great.”

                “You okay?”

                Shiro blinked away a thousand yard stare. “It’s nothing. Intense déjà vu—  what’d you do?”

                Keith shoveled in another bite of chicken, Shiro never lied to him before.  Not when it mattered. “Work was boring, Vaughn wasn’t there so I didn’t get to do anything cool.”

                “Any particular reason you smell like an ashtray?”

                He mumbled to the green beans left on his plate. “Stressed out, I guess.”

                Shiro said nothing for a long while. “The sooner we get rid of the Galra, the sooner we can be normal again,” he finally said. “I’m grateful you guys had my back, especially Hunk.”

                Keith probably owed him an apology. But Hunk doesn’t have a holophone. And it’s a thing he should do in person.

                “That’s why we’re a team. But don’t fall into any more pools,” Keith teased, changing the subject. “What’s our next target?”

                “Will do,” Shiro said, lopsided smile not reaching his eyes. “Lance has been trailing Missy, hoping to get a lead. Other than that, when Haxus died it left a lot of intel. Allura is worried about her people, they haven’t responded to her.”

                “Wow.” Keith winced. “That’s. A lot.”

                “Yeah.” Shiro surrendered the pretense of eating. “If Haxus’ memories are the methods the Galra use now, she’s got good reason to be. And so should we.”

                Keith doesn’t ask for clarification, his voice already loaded with a promise of dread. “Do the others know?”

                “Not yet, soon though.” Shiro straightened his posture, but an invisible weight settled around his shoulders. “You got a bucket list?” He laughed dryly, much to Keith’s apprehension. “Just… let’s not forget to keep living.”

 

                In his room, Keith chewed on the end of his pencil, doodling faces on the page. Shiro, serious but not as he was now— the haunted cagey look gone, the faintly raised pink scar across his nose traded for healed skin— yet how Keith remembered, dependable and supportive, a pillar. Pidge, glasses overlarge on her face, eyes warped big and naturally curious, long hair braided down her back and kinetic. He sketched out Hunk with an easy smile, solid and bold. Allura, who he’d frowned at, unsure of what was missing until he added her tiara. No matter how he tried, his eraser smeared the drawing of Lance beyond repair. His eyes were a different shape, maybe. Instead, he rendered a red-tailed hawk— in blue ballpoint ink, because it seemed right— wings outstretched in a dive.

 

                Keith drifted throughout the night unsettled, the usual safety of his blanket cocoon forsaking him when the quilt grazed his neck, consciousness latching back onto him. Cycle broken, his bedroom door creaked as he opened it, the faint skittering of nails against kitchen tile, a puff of exertion followed by the click of another door swinging shut. Slogging downstairs, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Shiro?

                “Are you okay?” Keith whispered to the door. A stubborn silence ticked away. “I know you’re in there.”

                <Didn’t mean to wake you— I’m fine.> Shiro thought-spoke in the exact cadence of someone very much not fine. <Go back to bed.>

                “You didn’t— what are you doing… actually, what are you in general?”

                <Minding my business,> Shiro snapped. <You should be asleep.>

                “Well, I’m not.” He snorted, unsurprised yet affronted by this streak of surly commands. “You can turn it off. No need to be leader here— I’d follow you anywhere.”

                A distressed whine resonated from Shiro’s side of the door, and Keith focused past his own discomfort to the copper hardening of his skin, the floor rushing up to meet him.

                <Just talk to me.> Keith said, clambering over the carpet beneath the door to demorph on the other side. “Please.”

                Shiro was stretched out on his side, lounging, though he lifted up his muzzle in brief curiosity before his face laid against the pillow again. He huffed a snuffled sort of sigh.

                “How long have you been in morph?”

                <I’m not trying to trap myself,> Shiro’s tail thumped against the comforter. <What time is it?>

                Green numbers on the digital clock read 3 a.m.

                <Oh no. I’m not checking out.> Shiro paused. <That would be irresponsible. Dogs are happy, that’s all.>

                Keith withdrew his outstretched hand when Shiro gave a warning growl. “Fine, forgot only Allura can pet you.”

                <You’re not funny. And she’s a princess, show some respect.>

                “Trust me, I know.”

                <I want to help her. But I’m nobody.>

                Such an untrue thing nearly rose bile up his throat, vehemence took its place. “She calls you prince, Takashi. What nobody is a prince?”

                <Maybe.> Shiro sat up, pawing at the comforter before he jumped down, pacing.  <I did it. When I fell into the pool.> He circuited the room twice. <Somewhere, if I could only focus, I could become a Galra.>

                “That’s… useful.” At least he didn’t suffer for nothing.

                <Yeah, but I don’t want to understand them anymore… what if I lost myself to its will?> Shiro whispered. <What if I crawled in your ear, regained control and demorphed?>

                Keith shuddered. _Brutal_. The clock marched relentless and he sat on the edge of the bed, hesitant. “Do you want me to time you?”

                <…sure.>

 

                Irony, simile, metaphor. No matter how Keith tried, the concepts didn’t make sense. Asking Shiro seemed like dumping his insignificant problems onto him, and he was enough of a burden already. _Come on, pass one more section and I can forget this forever, just not this quickly._ He refrained from smacking his face into the textbook. Maybe that would help, the words absorbing into his brain better through brute force than reading the same line six times.

                His phone vibrated with a text from Taylor. _It’s dog day at the park, wanna come? Saturn will be there._

                For as much as Keith loved dogs, after last night, Taylor’s puppy dredged up sitting in the dark, counting down the minutes. _No thanks._ He hit send, then tacked on. _Busy studying._

_Rain check— You’re in school?_

                You could say that. A wave of embarrassment washed over him, almost leaving the message on read. _It’s for a certificate._ High school diploma, certificate, practically the same thing. _Some other time._

_Good luck, how’s a movie tonight?_

                Normal people made new friends all the time, the idea of hanging out without having to talk to him much settling his nerves.

                After they decided to meet up at the multiplex, Keith silenced his phone, heaving a sigh at the mountain of words before him. The doorbell chimed and he leapt to pick up the package once the truck drove away. Box tucked under one arm, he left the sportswear store labeled box in Shiro’s empty room. Keith was halfway up the stairs when the tapping at the window drew his attention over the microwave buzzing with his lunch.

                “Lance?” He called out on the landing.

                <You got some other hawk climbing through your window?> Lance was a flurry of feathers after Keith opened the window, banking hard to perch on his bed post. <How’s Shiro?>

                “He’s… trying to get better.”

                <Good. Look, he’s not here, right?>

                “No?” Keith said, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Why?”

                <Because he’s driving me to molt!> Lance said. <Even if she does do something I can’t act on it—Missy might be beautiful but the shine really wears off after 3 million hours.>

                He nodded with false understanding. “Spy work sucks.”

                <You’re telling me! You wanna know what the leader of the Donate your Brain to Fascism Drive did yesterday— went to the spa and wellness center! And you’ll never guess what happened this morning— brunch! Upscale brunch with eggs benedict and bottomless mimosas. My poor over-easy grandchildren!> He stomped up and down the footboard as he spoke, talons clacking against the wood. <She’s gone to the rec center once all week! The pool’s gotta be bigger than we thought or Zarkon’s giving out private quintessence puddles for his biggest fans. Three days!> Tiny downy feathers wafted through the air as he gestured for emphasis. <It’s way past her feeding schedule no matter how I time it, something is up!>

                “Important and I hear you but uh,” Keith bit his smile in half, the steady beep of the microwave rescuing him. “I gotta get my food.”

                <Ha ha.> Lance called after his giggling down the hall. <I’m glad you find this amusing.>

                Lance probably found divine retribution in his burnt fingers stinging from the plastic tray unceremoniously dropped onto the edge of his bed. Keith ate around the cold spots and glared, hooking the tray closer to him in case Lance’s stare cashed in on going for it. “Have you eaten?”

                <What— yeah. Totally.> Lance said. <I had a big lunch.>

                Up close, Lance looked kind of skinny. “More than hamburger?”

                <There’s nothing wrong with ground beef.>

                “Man, I guess.” Keith shrugged. _It’s not exactly a balanced diet_. “So, you think Missy might have some kind of Super Galra? Sendak could just live longer without food.”

                <Lucky us, we get the comic book villain.> Lance sighed, nestled on a folded clump of blankets. <I never thought of it from that angle.>

                “Anything’s possible.” Keith picked at the rest of his lunch, Lance the type of quiet that gathered concern into struggled words. “Hey, she’ll slip up some time.”

                <Yeah, sure.> Lance said in a dejected tone. He stopped preening. <What are you working on?> He unnecessarily craned his neck to fix his keen eyes on the open textbook, mute then looking back at him expectantly.

                “Studying simile and metaphor. Or trying to anyway.” Keith mumbled around the tines of his fork. “Maybe I’m stupid.”

                <No, you’re not.>

                “I already failed this section once like a moron.” He admitted, face hot. “I don’t get it.”

                <Can I help?> Lance continued after his nod. <A simile is a comparison of two words using as or like. For example…> Lance ran through the text line by line but it only complicated his thoughts and he stopped following along.

                “A thing is a thing.” Keith objected, raking his hair back in frustration. “Not something else, that doesn’t make any sense.”

                <Okay, okay, hm. Am I human?> Lance asked, hopping forward.

                _Is that a trick question?_  Keith narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trick question?”

                <Now you’re thinking too much, you’re giving me wrinkles.> Lance sighed, steadily meeting his wary gaze. Every bit a red-tailed hawk, every bit his friend. <What’s the verdict?>

                “Of course you’re human but you look like— oh.” Sometimes things didn’t have to be what they seemed, they could be what they were or something entirely different.

                <Did that work…> Lance laughed.

                “Yeah.” For all of his jokes, Lance didn’t laugh much, but Keith liked when he did. Reaching over, he snapped the book shut. “Enough studying, let’s go flying.”

                <That’s my default.> Lance clipped him in the face with his wings launching off the edge of his bed to land neatly on the windowsill. <Ready when you are.>

                As a peregrine falcon, Keith skimmed the clouds, buoyed by a thermal from the baking pavement, buildings geometric below him. Drifting higher, he dropped into a stoop and the world blurred into a rush, speed incomparable. Lance soared as easy as breathing, a distant silhouette in order to avoid suspicion. Looping across the sky, his wings took him wherever he pleased. At least he could still hear him.

                Lance came out of a lazy circle. <When’s the weather going to quit playing games and put a breeze in the air?>

                <Let’s bully a sparrow out of a bird bath.>

                <That’s animal abuse.> Lance teased. <Better me than you, gentrifying bird baths.>

                Keith laughed. Flying was the coolest thing in the world and Lance’s judgements weren’t going to change anything. He dove again with the freedom of no greater thrill yet tethered by obligation and his time limit. <I can’t show up at the theater as a bird, I’d have to bail on Taylor.>

                <You can’t go anywhere as a— wait, who the hell is Taylor?>

                Keith filled him in on the guy he met at work, the air fresheners, the puppy photos. By the time he finished, he stalled for home, angling into the open window at a speed that wouldn’t cause him to slam into the opposite wall like a bird pancake. He demorphed while Lance spoke.

                <I’m still stuck on the air fresheners. What’s Todd do with them all?>

                Unable to reply, Keith shrugged semi-human shoulders as best he could.

                <Are they in his car? Driving around with tropical hula girl splash hanging out next to mountain mist— it sounds… weird?> Lance trailed off, staring hard. <Speaking of weird, what’s up with your arm?>

                Morphing cured wounds. Only the mental scars remained, but the original burn peeled in spots like a corrosive sunburn, his arm shaded from lilac to eggplant. Keith poked and prodded at the mottled skin—the edges of it wrinkled—but nothing hurt. Had the quintessence moved under his skin? The mark nearly crawled up to the crook of his elbow but it felt the same.

                <That looks nasty.>

                “Thanks doc, what’s the diagnosis?”

                <Pfft, I’m a just bird but you want my advice. See a real one or rub some dirt on it.> Lance chirruped in a low screechy jumble akin to dry laughter. <That’s the way we did it back home, mostly the latter.> 

                He stopped picking through a tentatively clean pile of clothes. “You’ve gone home, or flown over since… you know?”

                <Nah, don’t have the time, it’s sort of far—it’s easier this way.> Lance explained, voice low and  musing for his own benefit as he flew out of the window. <Anyway, I better get back to Missy-watch.>

                Fingernail scraping at a dent in the sill, he frowned. The paint flaked off against his thumb, lost words jammed between his mouth and brain.

 

                With the evening sun painting the sky and parking lot orange, Keith shoved his motorcycle helmet into its bag, carving a path on foot to the multiplex. His preference to park in the back allowed ample time for a lackluster attempt to smooth out his hair. Noting the crowd filing out of the theater, he surreptitiously tugged at his sleeves and, with Taylor nowhere to be found, rocked back on his heels, vegetating on the couch more appealing by the second. Maybe he wasn’t here. Five minutes. He pretended to study the show times to blend in.

                “Keith!”

                He turned at his name, flinching involuntarily at the sudden touch to his arm.

                “You didn’t see me, I was waving?” The guy said, glass marble blue eyes crinkled on a face he belatedly recognized as Taylor.

                “Uh.” Keith said, heartbeat at a gallop and ever a bastion of intelligence. “You look different.” A long way away from obscure band tee-shirts in a button-down and dark jeans. He had brushed his hair back, and without the length grazing his ears it made his face more severe yet open. He looked nice, why was he dressed so nice? Keith kept his mouth shut.

                “Good or bad, rating out of ten?” Taylor suppressed a snicker as Keith wobbled a hand back and forth. “Guess I’ll take it— you don’t look too bad outside a polo either.”

                He scuffed his dirty boots over the pavement, mumbling thanks before jerking his thumb to the posters. “What do you want to watch?”

                “You pick.”

                A wash of blue and orange colour schemes, silhouettes and ensemble casts swam before his vision. “I have no idea what any of these are about.”

                Taylor hummed, pointing at a gritty grayscale poster with splashes of red. “Do you like horror movies? This one’s supposed to be good.”

                “Sure.”

                Waiting inside in a queue for tickets, Keith anchored every shot-down topic internally generated to the garbage fire collecting sweat on the back of his neck. The scent of artificial nacho cheese and stale popcorn filtered past his haze and Taylor smelled like cologne, crisp and astringent. Not at all like an unholy amalgam of synthetic leather and mango. People shuffled and pressed against them like cattle. Keith cleared his throat, words falling sponsored by the uncomfortable pressure on his back.

                “Sometimes people hassle me about the helmet, but its’ too expensive to lock up.”

                “Nah, it’s cool you ride. If they hassle you, just ask if you get a discount for using it as a popcorn bucket.” Taking in his wrinkled nose and otherwise unchanged expression, Taylor winced. “It’s a joke, it’s like you’re from another planet or something.” His hand landed heavy and warm on his shoulder and Keith shifted forward, the rowdy kids behind them an excuse.

                _Speaking of planets_. “So, how’s Saturn?”

                “Eh, he’s great, wore himself out at the park and napped like a champ after.” Taylor continued. “I took pictures, I can show you on my social.”

                “Yeah… maybe, later. My brother, Shiro, he…” The concession stand lit up like a beacon, the glass display proudly showing off candy, jumbo box of sour gummy worms like a siren’s song. He could part with the six bucks. “He loves space stuff too.”

                 “Oh, my kid sister pretends at being an astronaut all the time. She went through a roll of tinfoil in a month! Maybe they could play together,” Taylor said. Keith stifled a laugh at the absurdity conjured by the image because no matter the circumstance, Takashi would excel and do better with people than he could ever manage; it still drew an unbidden and ugly snort from Keith — and Taylor’s mouth curved into a little smile.  “But Saturn’s not named after a planet, I just really love Goya.”

                Red-faced, Keith nodded as though he understood— maybe it would be a quiet horror movie. And he could take a nap.

                They clear the queue, the cashier getting their tickets, tub of popcorn, candy and drink cups with the customer service sheen Keith commiserated. Then bells clanged in his head as Taylor opened his wallet and for a terrible moment Keith fretted their volume, convinced everyone else could hear them as well. However, after a bit of arguing, they spilt the bill evenly and the world tilted a bit closer to its proper axis.

                “Seriously, I can buy my own sh—stuff,” Keith amended, the noisy kids slapping their hands against the drink machine crafting their own Frankenstein sodas.

                Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “But I asked you out— oh!” One of the kids stumbled on a sticky patch of tile and bumped into Keith, cherry red geyser leaping out from his hands. Keith jerked forward, most of it sloshing back into the open cup, dribble of it coursing like blood over his fingers. “…nice reflexes. But I don’t understand.”

                They sat on a bench near the edge of the lobby, Taylor with the popcorn sunk between his knees and Keith clutching his candy and soda in a death grip, nerves allowing nothing less.

                “Okay.” Keith started, sliding the box of candy from palm to palm back and forth, the packet rattling inside.  “So I didn’t know this was supposed to be a date.” He bit his lip, apologetic. “I would have dressed nicer. Like you. Maybe, for starters.”

                “You’re… really hard to read.” Taylor said, deflating and leant back until his head thunked against the wall. He exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “But I want to. Can we start over?”

                “Shoot.”

                “Absolute transparency, yeah? I’ll be right back.” He called over his shoulder with a little frown. “Don’t eat all the popcorn!”

                Keys jangling in his pocket, Taylor wove through people toward the exit, presumably to his car, and Keith allowed himself several deep breaths, a scoop of popcorn and the willpower to stay put.

                He reappeared looking suspiciously the same, the colour flushed high in his cheeks. “Hey, this seat taken?”

                “You were just sitting here.”

                Mouth barely level, Taylor collapsed onto the bench and stuck out his palm in an introduction. “Hi, I’m Taylor James Laurence.”

                “Keith Shirogane.” He shook his hand, Taylor’s grip slackening. Better to cut off any questions before they started. “I’m adopted.”

                “Okay. Red’s your colour.”

                “Yeah, how do you figure?”

                “A little bird told me— you suit it.” Taylor fumbled for his back pocket, unaware of the twinge of shock on Keith’s face, familiar in the thorny realization of misunderstanding. “So you don’t really seem like the flower type but, for the sake of clarity, like crystal clear.” A red carnation set in his hand as Taylor pulled away, the stem bent. “I’d like to get to know you, so maybe a movie wasn’t the best idea, but if you get scared I won’t, I will try my best to not hold your hand.”

                “I don’t get scared.” He tapped the bud against his chin, each petal softening his resolve. A lot he never had. “I’ll hold you to it. Come on, maybe the trailers are still going.”

                Usher taking their tickets, they walked together down the long hallway, muffled explosions and dialogue as they passed by each room before Taylor spoke again in a disbelieving tone. “Your brother is Shiro Shirogane?”

                “It’s a nickname.”

                “Got it, um.” Balancing the popcorn tub out of the way, Taylor held the door open. “After you.”

 

                In the dark with dozens of strangers, the movie screen cast desaturated shadows over their profiles. Keith finally tore into his packet of candy in bliss as the unlucky cast chased by a malignant entity played out. Gore, screams, jump-scares. Another hapless person washed away by misfortune. Blue raspberry and grape. The back of his neck prickled. Flickering light as stark as a bare bulb in a basement reflected off Taylor’s pale eyes. Keith tilted his head, brows curved in a non-verbal question.

                Tub in hand, Taylor angled its cold contents toward him. “Popcorn?”

                He took a handful.

                Cherry soda remedied his dry mouth, yet as Taylor’s gaze tarried, the grit of salt washed his drink alone sweeter. Creepy score of violins at a fever pitch, he slunk low in his seat. A gaunt figure appeared onscreen, capturing the main character underground and burying them alive. Chest tight, sour apple mingled with the press of dirt sprinkled over his head. Like bugs crawling under his skin, the violin’s screech set his teeth on edge. Scurrying beneath the earth in tunnels, Pidge was lost in her own head yet he could promise her justice, the only clarity guiding him. Lance abandoned him, the distance altering his own perception of time. Roaches could only travel so far. A countdown until he could no longer regain his true form seized his heart, fifteen minutes, ten. Alone under the earth, the hero onscreen pled, shallow breaths mirroring his own. He could survive as a cockroach yet not live. He grasped his own shivering hand away from Taylor. On trembling legs, head aching, room reeling with each step down to the exit, the thunder under Keith’s tongue bound itself in an inaudible gasp. Their cries weakened, a terrible silence. The path to the door seemed a tunnel itself.

                He needed air.

Shutting away with rusted locks where trespassing guided him before, Keith took the first door leading behind the massive theater, dark of the sky ruined by light pollution. Dull knife of fear sawing all his frayed edges alight as he sucked in each lungful of air, he strove for those coping mechanisms Shiro showed him years ago. He scrunched his eyes shut, colorful spots swimming in the black. _I am here_. It’s only a movie. He counted the cracks on the pavement up to thirty before his breathing steadied, choking out his problems directly. As he splashed water on his face in the bathroom and the rough paper towels scratched his face, he swore to himself. His helmet was under the seat in the theatre. Moving forward, Keith steeled himself with a downturned scowl, staring past everyone he encountered. But he heard his name and halted in his tracks.

                “There you are.” Taylor said, rising from a bench. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

                “I was in the restroom.” Not a total lie. Keith zeroed in on his bag, relief at its safety concealed by his own stuck expression. “Thanks for not leaving it behind.”

                “Yeah, sure. I figured you’d come back to me.” Taylor loomed into his personal space and Keith refused to back down, denying their hands brush as he took the bag. “It’s important to you.”

                “I like my head intact, I guess.” Keith pushed aside his words, already routing his way out, pleasantries be damned as he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder. “You missed the end?”

                “No big deal, guessing the villain got away, have to make room for those sequels.” Taylor said, his expression apologetic. “But maybe a horror movie was a terrible idea.”

                “Just maybe.” Keith smirked and Taylor huffed an awkward laugh. Something unsettled in Keith’s chest as they parted under the golden yellow spotlights of the parking lot.

                For one evening he hadn’t thought of the Galra.

 

                Keith slumped against a post in Pidge’s barn, arms folded as five pairs of eyes questioned him by various degrees.

                “Glad you made it here. Eventually.” Shiro said, forming the center of the jagged semi-circle their group composed. “Not that I expected you to answer your phone anymore since last night.”

                “Huh, what happened last night?” Pidge piped up, all innocence. She swung her legs against the stall, more carefree now Matt had returned to grad school.

                “A date—it must have gone well if you put it on silent.” Shiro said, an expression crossing his face Keith had thought missing for a long time.

                Someone drop him in the lion’s cage. His stomach sank.

                <You didn’t say it was a date.> Lance said from the rafters, strange note in his voice.

                “I didn’t know it was a date!” Keith flung out an arm only to belatedly recognize part of the tone as when Lance would whisper to him, prickling annoyance he couldn’t do the same.

                “How come…” Pidge said, gleeful grin plastered over her face. “Who wanted to date you? I wanna see!”

                He blinked. “See… what?”

                “Don’t you have couple selfies or something?”

                “No, I’m not in high school.” Keith said, angling a severe side-eye at her. “He’s got a face.”          

                “Fine, whatever.” Pidge shrugged and heaved a put upon sigh. “Not like I’m the best judge anyway.”

                “I’m with Pidge— who is this guy?” Shiro crossed his arms, mock stern. “Where’d you find someone who thinks mountains of messy clothes and your big ass head are sexy?”

                “He’s a cryptid.” Hunk said, sharing an entirely too loud laugh and high five with Pidge.

                Allura clasped her hands together, almost hiding her smile. “Yes, dish, I want to understand Earth courting rituals!”

                “I wouldn’t call it that.” Keith muttered under his breath. “Like I said it was just a movie.”

                They waited, expectant. _Help_. But Lance said nothing, thin hope he heard Pidge’s mother outside and they’d all have to hide not granted— much to Keith’s dismay.

                “Well, go on.” Shiro said, relentless. “Tell us about him.”

                “There’s nothing to tell.”

                “No evidence, Casanova, with an alleged face — it’s a made-up dude.” Hunk gestured with his capped highlighter.

                “He’s real.” Keith scowled at their chortling, breaking a little at the apology he still owed Hunk. “Guys, look. Alien superpowers didn’t make me any better with people. So Taylor likes air fresheners way too much and it’s been ten hours and I still don’t understand what a puppy named Saturn has to do with canned beans.”

                “All I got from that was ‘his name is Taylor.’” Hunk stage-whispered.

                “Canned beans… like Goya… the painter? We learned about him in my art history class.” Pidge said, humming. Of course she knew that. “Called it, he’s weird.”

                “Yes, very weird. Can we get back to the Galra, or getting more morphs or anything?”

                Shiro finally spared mercy on him. “Yes, that was what this meeting was for, so let’s rehash: the intel Lance secured for us gave us three leads: the wellness center, the brunch place and Missy herself, though she may be too high-risk to tackle right now.”

                “Somehow the three must be interconnected.” Allura said. “We must figure out what the Galra are orchestrating.”

                “All of us agreed splitting up isn’t the way to go.” Shiro said with an unbreakable veneer. “Which brings us to our next point— brunch. And Hunk will be our way in.”

                Hunk gave an unhappy little wave. “I’m bait.”

                <You get to hang out with Shay, and eat overpriced breakfast: win-win. You’re not bait, buddy.> Lance spoke up for the first time. <Trust me, I’ll have your back.>

                “Yeah,” Pidge said, “We’ll just be flies on the wall of your date.”

                “How reassuring.”

 

                Moments later, Hunk scooped up a stack of notes into his bag and not until his yellow helmet fit under his elbow could Keith stop lingering in the barn and summon the nerve to speak up. “So we’re good right?”

                “Why wouldn’t we be?” Hunk said, semi-genuine furrow to his brow. Okay, he had to make this difficult.

                “I didn’t… mean anything by what I said about Shay.”

                “Hey I get it. If it was my family, I’d be beside myself.” Hunk clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture as easy as it was brief. He really did get it. Keith froze at its unwavering acceptance.

                “We’re like the anxiety pals, paladins now? Anyway, we’re all pretty stressed with this alien stuff. Too bad they aren’t all like the princess.” He glanced over, Keith following his gaze to where she was petting Rover, Pidge nodding at something she’d said. “Just don’t make that mistake again.”


	10. The Depths

_Shay said yes. Whoever thought a first date wasn’t nerve-wracking enough should try adding on a mission to gather Galra intel. Nothing was safe. Or sure. So even when I’d rather have one thing untainted by the weirdness of my life, that’s not the way it works, is it?_

_Look on the bright side, they say. Espionage is preferable to the excruciating pain of a gunshot wound, no one ever said._

_I don’t know what regular is anymore._

                Hunk’s spiking heart rate mirrored then surpassed a caffeine-fueled all-nighter during finals week as he stepped off the city bus downtown. Catching his reflection in a storefront window as he passed by, his third choice shirt —a yellow checked monstrosity not a white button-down — panged him with regret. Simple and plain he was not, and arriving half an hour early to he and Shay’s agreed rendezvous allowed plenty of time for personal meltdowns over fashion choices. Walking toward the planned landscaping of anemic saplings centered by a fountain spewing water at intermittent levels, Hunk concentrated on not doing the same in a decidedly more acidic manner and collapsed onto a bench, far from most of the people on the lot impersonating greenspace.

                Before the middle distance became Hunk’s best friend, Lance whistled from somewhere overhead ousting its ranking. To his credit, Hunk had become acclimated to the fact his friend could drop into his head without notice and clamped down on the urge to scan branches or the skies. He only twitched a little at the greeting.

                <Yo, ease up on the nerves there, save ‘em for never.> Lance said, frown in his voice. <It’s just you: Hunk the hunk, primo bait and sharpest worm I’ve ever seen, and Shay, clearly a smart girl and definitely stunning. I’ll guide everyone, you can pretend we’re not even around.>

                Thought-speak as a morph-only permutation sucked. Alleviated by faith in his sartorial decisions, he shook his head. “Pidge will be there,” he mumbled, fishing out his phone to avoid a game of bad yes or no questions sponsored by public conversations with a hawk.

                A surreptitious glance placed Lance on a streetlamp facing the trees, a couple of squirrels playing on their branches. <True. Better keep it PG-13.>

                “She’d cuss you out if she heard you say that.”

                <Probably.> Lance said, nonchalant and over-earnest. <Offer still stands—you need help, I can Cyrano you back on track if you freeze up.>

                “The telepathy must have malfunctioned. Since when do you reference classic literature?”

                <Living life in a forest gave me ample opportunity to get bored, nothing to do but hang out with Allura. I like not being shipped off to KFC. So reading it is— solitude can drive a man to many things.> Wings buoyed by a breeze, Lance sighed like a weary king. Maybe only the conversation kept him tethered. <Not like I can fly through your window all the time.>

                A reasonable enough explanation. Though the grating rasp of anxiety spoke in gentler tones once it extended to Lance, Hunk heard enough terrible pick-up lines to pass up his oh-so-generous offer.

                <Right, of course you don’t need me. It’s a date, the kind both of you are aware of.>

                “Unlike Keith.” Hunk said. “You, passing up a golden opportunity to roast him into a charcoal briquette, what was that about?”

                <Nothing.> Lance scoffed. <You took up the torch.>

                “Yeah, but it should’ve been a tag-team effort. And no bullshit, you’re never that quiet.”

                As if to prove him wrong, Lance remained speechless, leaning forward as if he might pitch himself from his post at any given moment. <Just think about what _hot chicks in your area_ means for me now. >

                Empathy hollowed him out, finding his voice for the sincerity underpinning the joke. “Lance, I—”

                A squirrel leapt down, darting across the manicured grass, and a parabola coinciding with its foraging overlaid the hawk’s path—Lance’s path. Hurtling toward a point of no return, his talons raked forward. “What are you doing?!”

                <Ah, crud.> Lance swore as he nabbed air, his wings flared and the squirrel scampering up a tree. <J-just messing around. Let’s do this.>

 

                How Shiro forced himself to bear the world’s worst tracking anklet the last time they infiltrated Coalition territory was beyond Hunk. It’s a small relief houseflies required much less from him.

                <For as fascinating as this technology is I wish I understood it better… or could study it!> Pidge lamented, musing on while Hunk forfeited his bets for which fly could have been her beneath the café’s striped awning. _Look inconspicuous_.   <Like, body mass displacement for instance— matter doesn’t disappear!>

                <Of course not, our mass is simply transported to wormhole space.> Allura said. As if it were obvious.

                <I always wondered where the heck the rest of me goes.> Keith said.

                <Gross.> Lance groaned. <Your mullet is in space terrorizing the stars.>

                <No, not outer space, wormhole space: clearly no longer a speculative phenomenon— consider a wormhole like a tunnel—> Buoyed by verified concepts no one else on the planet accessed, Shiro enthused. <—and we have a two hour journey through a portal of space-time.>

                <So the mullet is in a space straw. That’s not an improvement.>

                <How elegant, I suppose it is like a straw.> Allura said. <One that holds you for safekeeping until you recall it.>

                They kept close but Hunk tuned them out— buzzing, incomprehensible thought-conversations and all. He eyed the window, the script font in chalk paint read _Source Café_. The place approached brunch with a sheen of family dining, stack of high-chairs and kid-friendly placemats a feeble attempt to counteract the hipster bones of metal seating and raw wood accents. A menu under glass took his interest. Standard brunch fare, yet under “chef’s recommendations,” a sticker covered one item marked _Coalition special_.

                <Hey, on your right—no, your other right.>

                Hunk turned at Lance’s direction, all worries about the mission soothed as Shay rounded the corner, her cheerful wave lifting his spirits. The hem of her plaid dress swished around her calves as she walked and he complimented her, easy as his stuttered breath allowed.

                “Thanks, it has pockets!” Shay shuffled her hands in them to demonstrate, stepping through the opened door, a troupe of flies following suit. 

                “How many for your party?” The hostess greeted them with a smile.

                The scent of baked goods and syrup lingered in the air. Pidge whooped in his head.

                “Sev— two, just the two of us,” Hunk corrected.

                After guiding them to a table beneath a wall-mounted waterfall of air plants and succulents, the hostess parted with two menus. Hunk pretended to peruse the selections.

                <Lance, are you in position?> Shiro continued after he gave an affirmative. <The patios covered, the Princess and I have the kitchen. Keith, you’re with Pidge, check out the diners.>

                <Why me?>

                <Because I don’t trust either of you not to nosedive into the fondue.>

                “Have you ever been here before?” Shay flipped through another page of the menu, her mild smile lifting at the corners when she looked up to his grin.

                “No, never.”

                “I can’t believe the Coalition has its own food.” Shay said, voice dripping disdain. “It’s like I can’t escape them.”

                Posture sagging with relief, his heart started beating again. Mouth ajar, his follow-up was interrupted by their waitress asking whether they would like cinnamon or garlic rolls.

                <Dude, my vote’s always on garlic but it is a date so go cinnamon, trust me.>

                He and Shay—in agreement with Lance though she couldn’t hear him— ordered a plate of mini-cinnamon rolls. He excused himself for the restroom and, after a confirming he was alone, fished the holophone from his shirt pocket.

                “Can you tell everyone to keep me updated on mission specifics,” he complained. “You guys are giving me conversational whiplash.”

                <Sorry, I’ll let them know.>

                He turned down the volume and fiddled with the interface for a moment, just in case.

                When he returned, a pyramid of rolls stacked atop a spoon push of icing dotted with flecks of cardamom had been set on the table untouched. “That was quick, you didn’t have to wait for me though.”

                “What’s the point of eating together if we don’t eat together?” _She’s so charming_. “And they just got here.”

                He snorted, though his nerves were already desperate for a missed clarification. “So, The Coalition, they’re not still bothering you to join?”

                “Yes, occasionally. Family’s gotten a little less persistent but still.” Shay picked at her food. “It’ll cut into my scholarship but I made up my mind to stay at the women’s dorms.” She set her shoulders in determination. “What can you do?”

                Hunk bit his tongue before he spoke, anger simmering behind his teeth. “Ah, yeah, you can get the real college experience.”

                She sighed, less resigned and more relieved. “Exactly, you manage to look on the bright side of things.”

                After they placed their orders, Hunk warming from the praise despite how untrue it seemed lately, they talked. About school and a dozen non-sequiturs that embraced just being normal. Some cowardly part of him wished divulging the horrible double-life he led wouldn’t hurt her. If only for being himself. Ignorance truly was bliss.

                <Oh no. Missy’s here!> Lance said at the same moment Shay, looking beyond his shoulder, remarked derisively, “This really is a Coalition hotspot.”

                Hunk turned without an ounce of subtlety to catch a peek of Missy striding past in the tap-tap-tap of heels recalling the nest of enemies he and Allura had found themselves. If only she were here now, because the empathetic telepathy thing? Quite useful for combatting the squeeze of panic around his throat, locking him to his awful metal chair.

                <She always sits on the patio. I got this.> Lance said, distracted note in his voice before he returned. <Wait, somethings happening in the kitchens. Shiro says they’re running low on some kind of sauce, see if you can order more. It’s part of the house special.>

                Hunk flagged down their waitress, pasting on his most winning smile as she assured it would be out with their order.

                Past the hurdle in their conversation, Hunk carb-loaded like his football days weren’t a thing of the past as the comfort of Shay’s gentle laughter quelled the shivers in time to that cadence of steps pulsing in his head.

                <Oh man, Missy’s having a meltdown. She pulled the ‘do you know who I am’ speech. Yikes.> Lance chortled. <Mimosa’s will not help you now.>

                Stuffed as his entrée set before him, Hunk meandered around the stack of mush on his plate. Strawberries, gridded custard masquerading as waffles; Tomatoes, poached egg, green sauce with extra green. Basil. Way too strong basil. Even seasoned potatoes lost their flavor to his blown palate. Was his tongue numbing?

                “How is it?” With her cardigan tossed over the back of her chair, the geometric lines tattooed over Shay’s bicep angled under her sleeve as she ate another bite of French toast. “Your face…”

                His optimism dropped at the prospect of lying to Shay, though he managed to croak, “It’s fine. Really unique.”

                Shay arched a brow but let him be, tending to her plate of normal. He required no warning to save the leftovers from anyone.

                <Psst, don’t freak out.> Keith whispered. <On the table.>

                A fly walked down the handle of his butter knife. He yanked the cloth napkin from his lap, covered the knife amid Keith’s protests, and swept the napkin back into place in one smooth motion to Shay’s questioning face.

                <Wait, no! I have an idea!> Keith buzzed from inside the wad of fabric. <Watch it!>

                Hunk laid the knife onto the table, scooping up his pesky friend as he excused himself. Keith ranted about health codes in an incensed mess.

                In the safety of an empty bathroom stall, Hunk shook out the napkin, Keith looping in mid-air to land on the tiled wall. “Explain yourself.”

                <I did! Look, I get in your food, you complain, health department shuts this whole thing down.>

                “You’re just one little fly.”

                <Pidge could join me! She’s totally on board.>

                <Men’s bathrooms are gross. And actually I’m not convinced.> Pidge buzzed up from his pants, zigzagging across the tile until she halted for a beat. <That’s not what solidarity means if you’re going to lie.>

                “Two flies. Amazing.” Put off by Pidge using him for transportation, Hunk crossed his arms, though they could only appreciate the weight of his sarcasm. “Let me know how that works out when they swat you.”

                <Look, you make a scene and—> Keith clipped himself short. <You’re absolutely right. Fly isn’t the call here.>

                At least he conceded quick so Hunk could return to his date, not hold a bizarre conversation with the Bad Idea Duo. Case settled, he unlatched the door, freezing mid-step. Palm over his mouth, Hunk stifled a groan from the telltale squish and pop of morphing.

                <I lost contact with Keith.> Lance said. <Where did he go?>

                “I got him, he’s with me.” Hunk responded via the holophone, nearly dropping it as Keith demorphed human. “Your hand.” 

                Natural pink fingernails contrasted their opaque beds and the skin around it a mottled violet, Keith drew it protectively to his side. “It doesn’t hurt.”

 _Not the point_.

                “Lance, we’ve got a problem.”

 

                Hugging Shay deposited Hunk somewhere in the stratosphere, but as he left the brunch leftovers in The Lab’s mini-fridge ascending the steps into the barn, his sportswear-clad friends gathered around Keith—his arm even uglier in the daylight—and he crash-landed back to earth.

                “Until we can figure out what’s wrong, you’re benched,” Shiro said.

                “What,” Keith spluttered,  “you can’t do that, you need me!”

                Pidge poked his arm.

                “Ow, stop it!”

                “Thought you said it didn’t hurt.”

                “Not when you’re jabbing at it!”

                Shiro sighed. “How long?”

                “Since we stole the quintessence,” Keith said sullenly.

                “It should have healed!” Allura gasped. “No human should retain their wounds.”  She darted in front of Shiro. “Hm, your scar never healed either.”

                “P-princess?” Shiro wavered as she leaned towards his face with an observer’s keen eye.

                “Clearly humans experience some kind of adverse effect from quintessence exposure. But, how would human-hosts remain unblemished?”

                “Yeah, Matt doesn’t have any bruises,” Pidge said, shaking her head. “I remember— you burned yourself.”

                Hunk frowned. “And Shiro cracked his head open on a hot tub.”

                “Allegedly.”

                Ignoring the interjection, he went on. “It still doesn’t answer why an injury shouldn’t heal.”

                <More like why it wouldn’t heal at an accelerated rate— a two week old burn shouldn’t look like that.> Lance said from the barn rafters. <It gets worse every time he morphs.>

                “Could he have an allergy?” Hunk tossed out the idea as soon as it came to him.

                “To morphing? That’s unheard of but not outside the realm of possibility.” Allura stepped back, glancing between Shiro and Keith. “Why should you heal, while you gain a progressive injury from quintessence?”

                “You said our bodies went into a wormhole,” Pidge idly adjusted her glasses. “Maybe he’s reacting to the vacuum of space.”

                “Oh, of course.”  Allura froze, eyes alight. “ _Quiznak_. Now I have to unzip it.”

                “I don’t want to be unzipped!” Keith said, wide-eyed and unfurling from his hunched position.

                “Wait, what—” Shiro said, brows drawn together, “What do you mean?”

                “The wormhole is incomplete, Prince Shiro.” Allura paused, more self-assured as she went on. “Somehow his mass must be trapped in the pocket of space where we placed the quintessence. Perhaps due to his previous exposure, displacement resulted in, well.” She made a gesture towards Keith— seemingly implying all of him, which Lance helpfully noted to Hunk’s amusement— and frowned. “As long as I can expel the quintessence you should be able to morph and heal from this odd phenomenon.”

                “So… I’m cured?”

                “In theory.” Shiro said, grateful expression undermining his voiced sternness. “Now if only you’d quit deviating from the plan.”

                “It worked out.”

                “Our track record with bugs isn’t great. You could have gotten swatted, but then again…” Pidge grinned in anticipation. “Hunk wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

                After everyone finished groaning, they filed out of the barn towards Allura’s dome, Shiro redirecting the conversation.

                “We’ve got this Coalition special in The Lab now,” he regarded Hunk carefully. “How was eating like the enemy?”

                “Everything was pretty sub-par. I mean, the regular food was well-made but The Coalition special?” He shrugged. “Strawberries, basil. Kind of a strange combo this late in the year. And if I wanted to recruit people with food, it definitely wouldn’t be my first choice.”

                “Plenty of diners ordered it, though.” Pidge countered uneasily.

                “Food for hosts only perhaps,” Allura suggested. “It might explain why Sendak was so adamant about receiving his order.”

                “Super Galra.” Keith said conspiratorially at the same time Lance echoed in his head.

                “Pardon?”

                <What if the Galra could stay out of the pool for longer?>

                “Because of strawberries,” Pidge deadpanned.

                <It was Keith’s idea.> Lance said. <I’m not a comics nerd, he could explain it better.>

                Everyone mulled over Keith’s reasoning, brittle grass crackling underfoot as they crossed a meadow into the trees. Hunk broke the silence first.

                “I’m just gonna say it. Galra extending their stay in Hotel Noggin, that’s a little terrifying.” He muttered, mouth an unhappy twist. “More so than usual, anyway.”

                “If we could counteract it, somehow force them into the pool, maybe there’s some way we can exploit their biggest weakness,” Pidge said, her tone reaching an apex of curiosity. “Hm, how would we test the effects if any exist? We’ve got the suspected variables but no Galra for control.”

                “Yes, what a shame we don’t have a Galra morph.” Allura said in an inexplicable rush, the dome’s doors materializing from nothing.

                The dome held a subtle warmth, cream tones softening the plated edges of each section of wall and blue lights gradually brightening up the space as they settled on a sunken couch, though Lance perched on its back and Shiro rested against its narrow arm. Allura stood before a console, unreadable screens floating before her face. The space mice gave Lance a wide berth.

                <I’m not going to eat you, you guys are the universal sign of Caution: Poisonous.> Lance huffed. <Anyway, the special wasn’t there last time Missy went to the café, so we still don’t know how she’s getting away with dodging the rec center.>

                “The spa.” Shiro said distractedly, darting none too covert glances at Allura while she worked, a twin set of pedestals rising from the floor. “It’s the only other option.”

                Shiro’s curiosity nabbed his own and Hunk chided himself— something far more advanced than hydraulics powered the devices under Allura’s open palms and his fascination mushroomed before returning to the conversation. “They did have a hot tub at the carnival.”

                <That would add up.>

                As light sparkled from the pedestals, a strange chart onscreen disappeared only to reappear seconds later. The wall sconces dimmed, a dazzling light emanating from Allura, her connection to the tech and the console itself. Hunk covered his eyes, Shiro rushing forward the last thing he saw. His vision spotted with shadowed blobs and he scrunched and blinked his eyes until they cleared to Shiro stabilizing Allura’s weight as she rose on unsteady feet.

                “Are you alright?”

                <Yes, of course.> Allura said automatically, the marks on her cheeks glowing. Strangely flickering as they hovered near her, the lights of the dome pulsed as if an irregular heartbeat, her eyes reflecting what little light the room held in an odd colour. <A proper Altean bridge would make my job easier. A makeshift teleduv under these conditions— I can’t work like this.>  

                Hunk arched a brow. “You uh, aren’t talking like you usually do.”

                “Yeah, aloud.” Pidge said. “What’s a teleduv— sorry, bad timing.”

                <Give her some air,> Lance said from the dormant console, particularly feathery. Shiro stepped away the barest modicum.

                “I set a location guaranteed far outside your solar system, where not even the Galra would be foolish enough to tread— they’ll never find the quintessence.”  Allura stood regal if not a bit worn around the edges. She nodded at Keith. “You should be fine now.”

                <He can turn into a lion again. Great.> Lance said with a sarcastic sigh. <Doesn’t mean you have to do it right now!>

                But it was too late, Keith committed to shifting his form until a lion gave a happy hum in his place. Regaining his humanity, he stared in wonder, only the deepest patches of the burn enduring on his skin. “Thank you, Allura,” he corrected himself. “Princess Allura.”

                She ran a hand along the console and her gentle smile faded as a screen much fainter than before rose mere inches from the surface. “It’ll take some time to recover power with the backup generator.” Her fingers danced across the hologram, an intensity to her motions drawing Hunk’s building concern. “Oh no.”

                Though Allura’s demeanor didn’t change outwardly, the sheer despondency of those two small words left his mouth dry.

                <What’s the matter?>

                “I cannot send transmissions.” Allura said, voice hollow.

                “How can we fix it?” Hunk shook it off. No one could be a rock all the time.

                “Impossible.”

                <We aim for the impossible every day.>

                “The ancients know if my messages were ever received. Perhaps it’s for the best.”

                “You’ve helped us countless times.” Shiro said. “What do we need to do first?”

                “This is my fault, I want to help.”

                “It’s important to you,” Pidge added. “If I can, I’ll do it.”

                Allura considered each of them before she spoke. “First, I’ll need a crystal.”

 

                Unfortunately a crystal wasn’t something they could simply purchase online or at a metaphysical shop, though once Hunk mentioned a mall to Allura the surprisingly universal concept garnered more intrigue than he expected. A Space Crystal. Rarified indeed. So as much as Hunk wished he could engineer a spaceship to gather the elusive item himself, sticking to their plan was the best option.

                Scouting the spa became top priority. The team with a new morph, Hunk with his own different form, the scratches to show for it, and two painstaking weeks later found them nestled in an unmonitored alleyway outside Vitality Spa.

                A mile from the recreation center, the spa operated as part of a brick and stucco half-block wide structure, as most downtown buildings. The front listed daily hours of business with the exception of Saturday, which read _by appointment only_. Perfect for Missy as they discovered her habits. And at three in the afternoon she parked in an open spot, their target in the passenger seat.

 _Everything’s fine._ Yet somehow, he couldn’t stop the nervous rumble of his stomach.

                <Hey bud, you good?> Lance whispered.

                He nodded, sure Lance caught the motion as he climbed higher on a thermal.

                Once the traffic slowed, Missy stepped out of her car, curly hair bouncing and gleaming its natural dark brown at every precise movement. The door swung open and as she hefted the cat carrier to the ground, Shiro walked out of the neighboring store, purchase slung over his shoulder.

                Missy stopped, so Shiro must have said something, their idle chatter sending Hunk’s stomach into a tailspin. Shiro pried the lid off a candle, her posture stiff as she leaned close. _They’re taking too long, the carrier door is still shut._ Shiro’s gaze drifted down, a shrouded gesture to Hunk from this angle. Missy finally released the tabby cat from its prison and showed him off, Shiro waving and tentatively petting the cat as if they weren’t previously acquainted, though in another form. Little housecats hunted birds, yet the entire team discovered birds of prey were another matter. And they’d taken advantage, after one adventure in Missy’s neighborhood.

                Missy froze on her way to the entrance, cat under her arm. Hunk read her lips, discerning _hold this_. Halfway to retrieving her purse, the shadow of a red-tailed hawk descended.

                All chaos broke loose.

                Shiro yelled as his bag of candles crashed against the pavement, the cat yowling at the sharp talons aiming for fur. It leapt from Shiro’s grip, fleeing the scene, tail high and unperceiving to Missy’s calls as it vanished around the corner with Shiro still apologizing profusely.

                “Dude, Dude, come back!”

                Allura’s thought-speak rang in Hunk’s head. <We’ve secured the cat, has Prince Shiro joined you?>

                Minutes later, Shiro sprinted after Dude’s path, doubling back to their huddle in the alleyway and paring down to the black outfit Hunk recognized him easier in than out of as he reassured Hunk of his role. _No pressure._ Once Pidge and Allura followed suit with cramming their normal clothes into the duffel bag wedged between the wall and dumpster, Allura urged them forward, already shrinking in size.

                Everyone focused on their respective morphs except for Pidge. Orange and white fur rose in tufts from Hunk’s skin, his vision dropping elevation yet clearer than before. Last unfurled the whiskers thin as fishing line. The alley intensified its ambiance for all his senses: sight, sound, smell.

                He refused to concentrate on smell.

                Somewhere on the pitted concrete three fleas awaited boarding for the SS Hunk.

                <Guys, uh, are you there?> Hunk shivered, the cat bravado submerged by extremely present worry despite each of them replying. <Hop towards warmth.>

                “Spoiled kitties don’t like being shoved into dog carriers.” Pidge crouched with Dude’s blue collar in hand, fastening it around his neck. “I call dibs on not taking him out.”

                <Noted.> He sat down to wait, intently staring anywhere other than Pidge’s direction.

                All of them cozied into his fur, Hunk groaned. _This is so gross._ Nevertheless, he jaywalked across the street as a perfect copy of Dude. Hunk wasn’t much a fan of the collar, its bell and tag jingling with every step. At the spa’s entrance, he meowed at full volume, alerting every person inside to his presence. The door swung open.

                “You came back for your mommy after all, come in!”  A woman said in her high pitched and saccharine talking-to-animals voice. As Hunk entered the waiting area she spoke in a stage whisper. “She’s not happy without her precious baby!”

                Too many smells. Acidic burning flared in his nose, the acrid odor of nail polish and perfumed products mingled into a noxious cocktail. Around him, people took no interest in his existence. Unsettling but common, The Coalition’s real special. However, the woman who opened the door didn’t let him wander long before she took pity. Confused, it dawned on him to follow the scent of himself to reach Missy, yet his mid-air paws dangled in vain. He huffed, gathered into her arms like a baby.

                “Don’t worry—” She squinted at his ID tag. “Dude. I’ll take you to her, just hold on.”

                <Hey, how’s Operation Manicure?>

                <I never agreed to that name, Lance.> Hunk said. <I’m looking for Missy.>

                <Keep me posted.>

                Down a long hallway, the woman hummed to herself, commenting on Dude’s well-behaved nature. Maybe he purred.

                 Maybe he was wrong, this could be easy.

                <Going flea is boring.> Pidge whined. <There’s nothing in this brain. I can’t hear anything either.>

                <At least we can’t get stepped on.> Keith said with a chorus of agreements.

                “Okay, I think they put her behind this door.” She knocked then stepped inside. “I brought a— oh, I didn’t realize this was for a couple’s massage, pardon me.”

                Spa robe untouched, in the same skirt of violent floral pattern Missy stood in the center of the room, to her right a man recognizable by the flash of thick scars atop his bald head.

                The woman winced but held firm at Hunk’s unsheathed claws.

                “You dare interrupt me? You were not admitted.”

                The woman stuttered at Missy’s lifted chin. “Ma’am, isn’t this your cat?”

                “Yes. Come.”

                With four paws dropped on the tiled floor, there was no other option—but man, oh man, could Hunk have an exhaustive to-do list. He leapt atop the nearest massage table. Close enough. Relying on instinct, Hunk’s tail flicked in nonchalance as Missy chastised him.

                She regarded the woman as she sidled out of the room. “Miss, I’ve never seen you here before.”

                “I just started this week.”

                “I see.” Her smile curved hollow. “Welcome to the family.”

                A frown ghosted across the woman’s features as she departed. “Enjoy your massage.”

                Missy addressed the man. “Make sure we have a soldier prepared for her the next time she comes in.”

                “Vrepit Sa.”

                Hunk shuddered, the tone crystal clear. Maybe guilt could eat him alive right now. What a fine choice, if he had one. Much better than filling in the rest of the team on the last five minutes. But as the man slid a hand along the wall revealing a secret door, fear took its place.

                <Yeah, I know it’s bad— we’re in trouble.>

                The air wafted damp, scented of deep earth. Another, nectar sweet and unrecognizable curled beside it. Missy tucked his body under her arm as if he were a clutch. It’s neither safe nor warm in her embrace.

                <Big trouble.>

                <You have to tell us what’s happening.> Markedly calm, Shiro’s voice pierced through his panic. <…Lance, we’re being led through an underground tunnel. We might lose contact.>

                Missy taking the lead, they descended into the Galra Pool.

 

                Lit by glowing sconces, the passageway extended to the innards of the earth. Smooth metal walls broke away in a hairpin turn of darkness. Squeezed tighter, Hunk stifled a wheeze and Missy stretched out a hand against the packed dirt, stepping down in the void with a surety he lacked. Lack shared in the man behind her because he stumbled, brushing Missy’s back before righting himself, an apology swift on his lips. Missy told him let it never happen again—a promise apparent—and the salt-sweat of fear drenched the tunnel. Keen eyes allowed him the gracious image of the wall bulging and a fetid odor suffocated his sensitive nose. Taujeer. Eating animals, dirt, their own all the same. As the stairway flattened into an alcove, two Olkari guarded the adjoining door and the taujeer bellowed as Missy passed, a makeshift salute managed with their stubby limbs while others shivered from held-at-bay hunger. Missy strode with single-minded purpose, the Olkari opening the door without prompting so she never slowed. Unperturbed by the collective muffled wails of the people beyond the covered catwalk below, Missy let herself into the next chamber.

                Hell had a waiting room of course.

                Eggshell painted drywall, motivational posters and a potted rubber plant for décor, simple furniture off-gassing miasma. A family occupied the plush couch, their bored teenager playing a handheld game, small child engrossed in a picture book. Another cluster of glassy-eyed people huddled around a small TV on mute, subtitles scrolling by in English.

                “As nice as it is to see so many of you, dear Sendak here needs isolation.” Though her pitch neared that singsong Coalition meeting cheer, an edge remained. No room for argument. Missy loosened her grip and Hunk poured from her arm. “Leave.”

                Each person filed out of the room through a different door than Missy utilized, though at their passing salutes she protested with a falseness Hunk sensed.

                Only people left, the parents exchanged glances until the father spoke up. “Roger said it might take longer for him to absorb nutrients, the generator is running low.”

                Missy narrowed her eyes, synthesized chirps from the video game filling the silence.

                The mother leaned forward this time, her fingers trembling in her lap. “My son, he’s not been matched again, the galra is still in the pool.”

                “Okay. I understand your concern now.” She perched on the arm of the couch near the child, teeth grinding together once before her disposition shifted entirely. “You’re a very special boy. And you’ve made friends here. Are you worried you’ll be alone?”

                She waited until the boy nodded.

                “Don’t. There’s not many kids like you at your school yet, but soon there will be. I know you are worried about your friend but he’ll always be with you, never lonely, and the empire will care for all of us. It’s a promise.” She held out a pinky, locking it with his much smaller one. “Go on, he’s probably done by now.”

                The boy stooped over the pink pool and when he returned, Missy ruffled his hair. “Run along.”

                He followed his parents, whose grateful expressions goaded Hunk to momentarily collect himself before he continued relaying events to the team.

                No one said anything for a time until Shiro, in a voice laced with grief-stricken rage, swore an unanswerable “ _what have they done to you?”_

                Missy’s smile fell, cold demeanor washing her into stone and she disgorged Sendak from her head, the red bottom of her heel warning, warning until she stood unmoving. Her fingers trembled, she sighed. Hunk stood curious and motionless as she turned around, perhaps not entirely embodying a cat. Dull and worn, she stepped out of her heels and approached him until she sat feet tucked under her thighs.

                “Hey, Dude.” Hoarse, she reached to pet the top of his head but he sank into himself, jerking out of range. “Sorry, Sendak probably took you someplace scary. You’re safe. I’ll talk to him again.”

                He wandered the room, ignoring her until a jingle caught his attention from the couch. The rubber plant didn’t do much for him anyway, and he took up the cushion next to her. Missy dangled the tassel in front of him. He batted it about while she giggled, louder now the sound startled Hunk— disconnected by a musical sound among such suffering— the toy hit him in the face and he shook it off to Missy’s apologies.

                “Aw, you’re still the best hunter I know.” She stroked down his side.

                <Everything’s moving down here!>

                <Should I make her stop, Missy is petting me.> Hunk assured Keith.

                <No. Just freaky.>

                Missy scratched at his fur and he darted away as subtly as possible, kneading into her lap to settle there.

                “Sendak said we’d do great things together but I wish he’d let me see them, and stop pushing me out.” Missy admitted. “You know, you’re my only real friend. I love you the most because you’ll never tell my secrets.”

                They have a rule. Never thought-speak to anyone. Beyond foolish as it was, now Hunk considered breaking it. He bit his proverbial tongue.

                <Allura, how much time do we have left?>

                <Thirty minutes have transpired, is something the matter?>

                He hesitated and an image of sunbaked earth grazed his mind for an instant. <No, but I think we should go— how long does Sendak need to recharge?>

                Shiro spoke through their uncertainty. <You find an opening that won’t get their attention, there’s bound to be someplace in this cavern we can demorph.>

                The door opened, the balding man returned with a dossier in hand.

                “Roger.” Missy glared at him, commanding airs no less without her parasite. “Those who come willingly to us deserve special treatment over those who still require… shall we say, convincing. From my experience, no one likes being ordered around. Trust me, you have to introduce it slowly so they never know the difference.” She tucked the dossier inside her purse after a cursory onceover. “Since when do we inform voluntaries of the inner workings of our fine community? While we value a certain level of transparency that’s not it. There’s no need to alarm them. It’s bad organization.”

                “Sendak, you have my utmost apology.” He saluted, the door half closed behind him. _Now’s the time._ “It won’t happen again.”

                “I’ve heard that a lot lately.” Missy teetered back into her heels. “He’s still in the pool.”

                Hunk slunk for the door on silent paws, his tail but a shadow on the floor when a displaced “ _where’s Dude?”_ sent him into a full-tilt sprint at staccato heels.

                “But Ms. Iverson, Sendak is ready for you.”

                “Fine,” Missy snapped, voice fading into the waiting room. “Return him to me unharmed!”

                Shoot, the Olkari. They guarded the other side of the catwalk, one with a swipe he narrowly dodged. Careening in the other direction, human steps thudded behind him— Roger in the doorway, Olkari at his back. No way out.

                Hunk leapt onto the railing with a gymnast’s grace and jumped. Claws tearing through the curtain, he slowed his descent. An arm, human or Olkari, gathered the curtain backwards, smothering him against the rock face. He wriggled free, plummeting to the ground floor of Galra headquarters.

                <Hey, cats really do land on all fours!> Hunk crowed. <Yah!>

                A splatter of acid soaked the flooring, its ill-mannered owner quivering with hunger. Three more just like them circled. Readied for another strike, the taujeer screamed as Hunk extended his claws, warning swipe breaking him open like an overripe melon and all of his fellows save one, distracted by the heftier meal, abandoned Hunk for their own.

                The last taujeer followed but Hunk outpaced them easily. However, several humans and Olkari hastened to Missy’s orders.

                <They’re chasing me!>

                <I said lay low!> Shiro chided.

                <Too late!>

                Where could he hide? Beyond the pool were earthmovers, tunnels, and further still in the opposite direction a set of sheds and buildings. They didn’t smell inhabited. He needed to lose his tail first.

                Darting between reaching hands, buildings a beacon, he yowled, ripped from the ground like a pissed-off nine pound carrot.

                “I have apprehended the captain’s companion,” the Olkari said in a clipped accent.

                <They got me!>

                Everyone in his head yelled _fight, fight_ though he needn’t be told.

                Biting, scratching, Hunk swung from the Olkari’s arm, his hind leg striking true when it sank into the soft spot of an elbow behind its blades. The Olkari trilled and flung Hunk in a soaring arc. The world spun in a mass of brown and magenta. Only magenta, quintessence roiling with Galra.

                Oh no.

 

                Hunk was pretty sure cats couldn’t hold their breath, yet his discretion was the better part of valor since he succeeded on pure will. Paddling to the surface with his heart slamming against his ribcage, he called out to the others to no reply. Galra slid off his body as he gasped for air. His eyes covered by residue, he wiped at them with his hands. Not toe beans, not claws. Brown hands, light palms against the faint glow of quintessence. He submerged under the surface, hands clapped over his ears with a pressure ushering a headache. He never fell out of morph before. Allura never said it was possible. _Focus_ , all he had to do was focus. Nothing changed. Unmoving by the circulating pool current, Galra floated, suspended in the murky haze. His lungs burned.

                Ragged breathing joined his own, shallow and rapid— Keith and Shiro respectively. Allura popped from the pool surface like a beautiful and horrifically wheezing pink-stained daisy. <Where is Pidge?>

                All of them jerked with the same fearful realization. _She can’t swim._

                A viscous bubble burst on the surface and Shiro swam toward it, hauling Pidge by her arms to the edge of the pool. The cavern echoed with her watery hacking. Shiro thwacked her on the back as she coughed it up. Surveying anywhere but the cages lining the pier, Hunk dragged himself out of the pool as his friends followed.

                With his chest tight, Pidge mostly settled but Keith clearly had not.

                “How do you not know how to swim?!”

                “I got sent to summer camp for three years. I made it a point of contention not to learn to swim. _Je ne regrette rien_ ,” Dazed, she gaped and swiveled at the frozen bodies. “Time stopped.”

                Keith bludgeoned the silent truth with an aluminum bat. “Guess what, genius, we know that!”

                “Don’t be mean to me, I almost drowned.” The second he yielded she vibrated with questions. “Allura, Allura, what phenomenon is this? Galra tech? What purpose does it serve?”

                Allura bristled. “Whatever’s at play here, Galra have no access to such a thing I assure you.”

                “Can they see us, are we made?” Shiro waved his hand in front of an Olkari shoving someone to the receiving pier.

                “Prince Shiro, that I cannot say. This stillness is unnerving.”

                Everything pried from a creepy film set, chills ran over Hunk’s nape. Odd how stripped from the ability to summon the DNA of his acquired animals seemed abnormal. “I can’t morph, say it’s just me please.”

                Pidge and Shiro shook their heads in turn, Keith made a frustrated noise.

                “Not even a _yelmore_ I’m afraid.” Allura propped a hand on her hip, perplexed.

                Shiro removed the alien weapon holstered on the Olkari soldier. “Princess Allura, you know how to use this, right?” After her affirmation, he held it out to her, blunt barrel down, and she took it gingerly. Fit to an Olkari shaped hand, she shifted her hand into prongs. A beam shot out. And blew a two foot wide depression in the rock behind her.

                Shiro’s mouth hung ajar. Pidge burst into giggles until they all followed suit, Hunk at the edge of hysterics, ridiculousness dangling him from a precipice.

                “Whoa, take a breath. With me.” Listening to Shiro, Hunk calmed.

                “How are you okay with this? Look!” Shrugged into himself, he flung his arm out, no need for elaboration.

                “I’m not.” Shiro admitted, centrifugal force of their truth swabbing the unbidden tears in Hunk’s eyes.

                “We have to keep going,” Keith trailed after Shiro.

                “I don’t know if I can.” Hunk wobbled to his feet.

                “Then we will carry you, as you have us.”

                Pidge squeezed out her sodden braid. “I’ll push you. Ninety pounds, let’s go.”

                “Yeah, okay.” He swallowed. “I’m with you.”

                “Stick close,” Shiro said, smile lit for its subject. “We’ve got plenty of suppressive fire.” Whatever Allura’s private response, his ears pinked. Once Keith pointed that out, the three of them snickered at his expense.

                “This place is so much different now, and they’re still building. If we’re going to explore, let’s find this generator first.” Shiro muttered, more to himself.  He found a handgun on a human host and held onto it, gesturing with his free hand. “Buildings are our best bet in case the spell breaks and we need cover.” He glanced over his shoulder at the encroaching dark of the tunnels. “I don’t want time to unfreeze with a hotbed of worms nearby.”

                “Agreed.”

                “Uh, wow so I’m the only one here who knows when you see the sky, it’s not time to go deeper into the whale!”

                “Calm down Jonah.”

                Despite his outburst, Hunk kept pace as they wove through people, away from them— in their varied clothing their resistance— to the Olkari, each issued a standard uniform, some stuck watching the blue blood draining from the Olkari’s soldier arm in an approximation of a vacant expression. Cutting a path across a landing pad toward the buildings, they ignored the taujeer gore. “Do they seem hungrier to you?” He amended. “More than usual?”

                “The taujeer we saw before did seem to have a better grasp on their hunger.” Pidge walked with a hand up to her face as a makeshift blinder.

                “Perhaps,” Allura trailed off, the holophone’s thin screen in hand.

                “What are you doing?” Pidge asked.

                “Crafting a rudimentary map. We could guess where those tunnels lead.” Allura turned full circle. “Also if Lance is not suffering a similar fate, he’ll trace us.”

                Hunk hated facing this as is, but alone? He hoped not.

                Then again, Lance had adapted and survived so much.

                As they came upon the first row of buildings, they wandered door to door like trick-or-treaters in lazy costumes. By the eighth storeroom of either weapons or dwindling foodstuffs of varied alienage and canisters of dull quintessence, Pidge, on an exploratory mission with zero in-depth research reduced herself to a groaning teenager at door number nine.

                Shiro tugged at it to no avail. Allura joined him and the hinges groaned, steel protesting their combined efforts until they stumbled backwards when the lock clicked.

                “It’s a handprint.” Keith shrugged, pointing at the screen jutting from the wall.

                Filing inside, Hunk craned his neck, canister upon canister waiting its share of quintessence from the machine centered in the room. Even in suspended dormancy, it hummed with pure energy.

                “This is it, how do we break it?” Keith moved closer but Shiro blocked his path and Hunk’s hair stood on end, echo of a time immortalized in his memory. Of Alfor, the morphing sphere and the strange marvelous ship ushering such a gift and curse.

                “Scavengers,” Allura swore, clasping her empty hand over her heart. “You don’t hear it, that whisper? The crystal inside, it filters the quintessence.”

 

                With no viable way to extract the crystal from its confines as they were, together they picked their way back over the landing pad. In the distance, the catwalk led into a skybox overseeing the Galra Pool. 

                “How do we get up there?” Definitely not equipped for rock-climbing, Hunk frowned.

                “Let’s go through the main door.” Pink marks glowing faintly on her face, Allura smoothed her ears so as Hunk fell behind her she appeared convincingly human.

                Once they breached the recreation center’s door, Shiro went ahead, giving them the all-clear. Silence here filled the halls as they headed for the exit, The Coalition’s emblem marking each door they passed like a tomb, their footsteps a living rhythm. The oppressive markers thinned out. Concerned with perceptions as they recruited new members, people posed with natural bearings. Heartbeat in his throat, Hunk forced his gaze straight ahead for sheer perseverance yet Keith held no such hindrances.

                “He’s one of them.” Rooted to the linoleum, Keith angled his clenched jaw at a blonde man in a beanie. Flash of a purple pamphlet used as a marker tucked in the book under his arm, his height nearly matched Hunk’s own, body turned fully to the purple buttoned recruiter yet his expression caught strange.

                “Not necessarily.” Shiro offered. After all, they crossed the members only cordon. “But highly likely.”

                Keith agreed, squaring his shoulders.

                As daylight beckoned him beyond those doors with Keith on his heels, Hunk braced for the sigh of the double doors, the breath of the city, the park, anything alive with sound.

                “It’s gone bananas out here, what is going on?”

                After nearly a year of thought-speak, Hunk reeled at the unchanged familiarity of Lance speaking with his entirely human mouth.


	11. The Reprisal

_I am a Princess, and princesses do not beg. The universe to no reply offered a glimpse of my father’s legacy. His words echoed_. We lead by example, the hand guiding our people. _Yet now, I waver. Crystal housed in the very machine granting his mortal enemies life, surrounded by a pink hued glow, so synonymous with proud warriors fallen to a noble cause, with honoring the dead— what had the Galra not spared in claiming my father’s life?_

_The Paladins were all that remained of his legacy._

_As they have rallied to me, I will be more than the princess born with mourning on her face._

                “What is going on?” The outsider repeated himself, confusion as evident as the disconnect between his sole movement amid a static backdrop.

                “Who are you?” Allura held fast the Olkari blaster, familiarity of his voice staying her hand to its natural shape. _It_ _couldn’t_ _be_ …

                “Lance!” Oblivious, Hunk rushed forward, tackling Lance in such a hug the wind knocked out of him like the echoed punch of his name somewhere behind her. “You’re okay, you’re _you_ again, oh man, am I relieved!” His always welcome laughter gentled her frayed nerves. “I can stop sneaking you packages of ground beef!”

                “If I never eat another hamburger again, it’ll be too soon.” Lance admitted, perking up a little. “But I could go for sushi... Yo, ease up, my inner hawk is screaming!” He added, though neither separated.

                _No._ Those stuck in morph never overruled its permanence. But the trees were stilled, a browning leaf suspended in mid-air, another crunched underfoot into shards upon the ground, disturbed by so small an action as they circled Lance. Yet Allura grafted to where she stood at ease in unease.

                “I’m glad you’re back.” Shiro one-arm hugged Lance, patting him on the back before Pidge took his place. “Hell of a way to do it.”

                “Language! There are little ears present.” Lance mocked, bright eyes glimmering facets of a hawk’s intensity.

                The latent air granted Allura to breathe it, the sheer amount of supernatural power responsible crackling at the seams of her composure. She centered herself through the huddle surrounding Lance, who grinned in spite of circumstances as Pidge uttered a curse in good humor and swung at his shoulder.  As if by a fatal blow Lance staggered, basking in attention. Their chatter filled dead space as she and Keith — by choice glutting himself on cursory glances — drifted like nebulae on the fringes of a group hug. Lance emerged from its center, curiosity directed toward Keith’s deepening scowl.

                “Wow, mullet.” Lance dropped his open arms. “Just cause this is a much better view, I’m hurt. Wounded to the core. And here I thought we were cool.”

                “Shut up.” Cutting his teeth on every word, Keith traded his frown for a shaky smile, hooking his chin over Lance’s shoulder a fleeting moment. “This day’s been beyond weird.”

                “I have hands again—” And here Lance gestured in a manner she couldn’t read, but it seemed all the more as a hawk’s shaking wingspan. “Somehow weird is the least of it.”

                Lance’s speech aligned then overlapped his telepathy with every expansive gesture as they talked together, so when he reluctantly drew from under Hunk’s arm voicing _Allura,_ all flirtatious confidence like many a time before, doubt absolved itself with an inward sigh.

                Yanking back the jacket hood Hunk had playfully shoved over his head, his hair falling over his forehead streaked unnaturally golden and somehow windblown, Lance introduced himself. “I guess we’ve never really met before.”

                “Of course we have. You’re my friend.” She set the gun near where Shiro laid his, her hands tingling with the ghost of an uncomfortable weight, gladly mistaken, to see him as he truly was. “Come here.”

                She hugged him, adjusting her grip at his pained grunt.

                As she pulled away, he studied her face, gaze troubled with the colors of the sea she’d been buried in. “Beautiful as always, but you’re glowing. Literally.” Hesitating for his continued longevity, Lance shifted direction to point where her markings corresponded on his own tawny face. “That’s normal?”

                She nodded, gesture firm, resolute. Biding her time until he returned to the huddle. Steadying her breath in preparation, Allura’s birthmarks suffused warmth beneath her fingertips and she bit back a whimper.

                In its strangeness, of Earth, of space— this above all cannot be true. Legends in Altea, stories of those Chosen. Just a folktale. Another story among the thousands told around an ornate banquet table.

_Not real._

                Shiro said her name. She heard it, but urgency meant nothing.

                Not her reality.

                Twin heralding soothsayers burning bright, she dug her fingers into her cheeks.

                “Allura, what are you— stop, look at me.”

_You’re scaring them._

                The tremors rattling her frame, the weight of their collective stare, the weight of Shiro’s hand over hers. Steadying.

_Concentrate on the soft rumble of his voice._

                When she chanced opening her eyes, a blinding halo outlined her vision, and past Shiro, his concern manifesting solid before the others gathered around him—one above all whose face she should have never known.

_I must seek the truth._

                “Lance.” Allura spoke his name in a one syllable gust through chattering teeth, noting the neglected presence of the holophone. “How did you know to come here?”

                “I was flying. Then I wasn’t. Everything stopped and I, um...” He hesitated as if struggling to collect himself, clearing his throat. “I wanted to help and I heard a voice. So I ran. It led me here.”

                “Huh… like how we found the Princess?” Pidge asked.

                “No.” Lance insisted. “That was just a dream, this was…different.”

No warning came.

                From nowhere and everywhere— inside her head as a thought, indescribable colour exploding across the landscape of her mind, a disembodied voice within and without of ageless terror and kindness.

                _“To you, Paladins of Earth, I offer a decision.”_

                Through the blur of her vision, a figure appeared. They could have been anyone. But they were not anyone. Their face, so purely Altean, provided no comfort. Clad in golden robes of such detail, such finery woven into galaxies, spun in the drape of a thousand planets, a being with stars coalescing on their dark skin as if their body consisted of the ephemeral itself— pulsing with constant renewal.

                Off-kilter, she stood on trembling legs, bolstered by Shiro who found his voice first, shaking next to her.

                “This isn’t possible _._ You saved me.”

  “We have met before, yes.” Cool condescension trickled into the fractures of her mind as the not-quite-Altean spoke. “I am as your fragile human mind can bear.”

                What changed Allura could not guess but Shiro relaxed a fraction, confirming her worst suspicions.

The White Lion. _Oriande_.

                “Yes, child, that is what your people have named me. Many lifetimes past.” Something like a smile crossed Oriande’s face, the joy thrumming through her not her own. “You asked me to save him.”

                “I did no such thing.” Allura’s stomach roiled white hot and her throat prickled with static, yet bravery spilt from her tongue. “You’re a folk tale, a story to scare children. I would never call upon you.”

                “Wait, wait, wait— so you’re telling me you came here because of a butt dial?!” Hunk flinched as if he only realized what he said after it met air, their stares obfuscated by the shuttering of seconds torn into a slice of darkness.

                Water enwrapped her, silvery line of the surface obscured by the sheer depth of the ocean. Bioluminescent Earth creatures, those solitary companions as she cried out for succor dotted the ocean floor as shimmering pinpricks, as warnings once again. Yet this time— she wasn’t alone.

                “Would you not now, again, for this beautiful and terrible world?”

                Her paladins stood beside her, their fear, wonder and confusion tangible in a way the danger, the pressure, the wet of the water, was not. She shut them out all at once, overwhelmed by their feelings yet grateful. She could breathe.

                She would not reply.

                “You don’t know who I am, last of the Sacred Alteans.” Oriande wove a hand as if plucking the strings of a musical instrument, an invisible cord snapped and a forest floor teeming with lush plants and animals surrounded them. “I have watched your bloodline and you, you have sent me an offering of quintessence, one I cannot ignore.”

                “Watched.” The word burned like ash on her tongue. “Civilizations have crumbled on your watch. Dynasties fell.” Disbelief cradled her and whatever remained of her beating heart shattered. “You watched my father die.”

                “Some things are fated and I cannot interfere.” Oriande’s words reverberated strangely in her head. “A small planet’s essence, yet incomparable to Earth. In so many ways. This planet… with so much wonderful life. The Galra should not destroy it.” They look out over a tundra, expanse of rocky outcroppings and scrubby grass traversed by horned animals. “Paladins, I in return offer you a sanctuary from the Galra, from this war, a utopia.”

                “You say you don’t interfere, why stop time?” Shiro asked as they were once again outside the recreation center. “Why give us all of this?”

                “You lose the war and all is lost.”

                “No.” And the shrapnel of her heart cast itself steel amid her paladins’ tangled outcries. “You cannot know that.”

                “As your current timeline unfolds, you face defeat.” Oriande said as a star blinked out of existence. “All sentient species deserve at least this much.”

                Hands on knees, Hunk collapsed into himself, Pidge and Lance attempting to comfort him.

                Shiro crossed his arms. “So you choose us to decide the fate of our planet.”

                “I can’t legally vote yet!” Pidge cried looking up, hands clenched at her sides until they flexed open, deflating into nervous posture. “Why me?”

                “You are the only ones capable of such a decision.”

                “Fate of the world, no big deal.” Hunk groused. “What are the terms and conditions?”

                They listened as Oriande spoke, that voice quaking and reposing every thought in Allura’s mind.

                “A sampling of Earth’s biodiversity for guaranteed peace. I cannot commit to this, this is your planet.” But she held a glimmer of hope like a tether. “And your decision.”

                Shiro’s brows knitted together in a mute question she ignored.

                “So everyone we care for will come with us? Absolutely everyone?” Pidge bit her lip at their agreement. “I say yes.”

                “What about everyone else, we abandon them to the Galra?” Keith rounded on her, his voice incredulous, and Pidge didn’t meet his stare.

                Shiro exhaled a heavy breath. “What happens if we say no, if we don’t decide anything?”

                “Then everything will return as it was and you will be left to your fate.”

                “Wait, no you can’t—that’s not fair!” Hunk wrapped a protective arm around Lance. “No more fighting, I’m in.”

                Stepping from his grasp, Lance stared unblinking as a predator into the infinite gaze of Oriande. “You were the voice. You used me, for pity.” He laughed, short and bitter. “No. I’ll take my chances at fighting here if we lose either way.”

                “Sometimes fighting is not the best course of action. But as you wish. If you survive, I await your decision.” Oriande spoke and Allura descended into a darkness lit by twinkling stars before they faded away completely.

               

 

                <They got me! Again!> Hunk grunted, struggling and tapering off in confusion. <What—>

                <Stay still!> Nestled in fur rising like thin trees, Allura’s command despite her minuscule form was no less certain. <Don’t fight or we’ll be submerged!>

                Hunk acquiesced, describing in panicked tones the varied hosts circling, Olkari arm registering as heat to the flea body. The Olkari held Earth’s resistance by the scruff of the neck. All curious eyes at once snapped to an irate Missy. By her demand on high they were deposited into her arms, warmth surrounding the fur pressed around Allura. Hunk’s blood beat as a swollen river under skin.

                <Guys, we’re in trouble. She’s pissed.> Hunk said, his wave of anxiety breaking through her barriers to leave her imagination untethered.

                <You have to tell us— what did she say?> Allura coaxed, dappled sunlight tinging her words.

                <Missy’s not letting us go this time.>

                “Agreement or no, I’ll—” Grasping Hunk tighter, Missy shuddered. “Very well. Krug, bring the crate down. I can’t have this creature on display during Zarkon’s meeting lest it upset him.”

                “Yes, of course, Captain Sendak.” Roger departed from the room unawares of the private cacophony they ushered.

                Swathed in the indistinct senses of the flea, the uncertain despair of her paladins bounded against her own. Yet she gathered her muffled courage, assuaging Hunk most of all.

                <This timeline we weren’t thrown into the pool. Already things have changed.>

                <The Princess is right. We can’t give up.> After setting them to rights, soft as the pale inklings of twilight, Shiro whispered privately. <Allura, our plan for simple recon spiraled. The timeline might be different but if what Oriande said is true, there’s no way out unless we make one. And even then—>

<We already have. _Sometimes fighting is not the best course of action. > _Allura quoted. <Now we’re here and we must maintain cover.>

                <We’re outgunned, to put it mildly. Anything else would be a death trap.> Shiro muttered to her silent agreement while Hunk described the scene unfolding around them. <Come on, Hunk.>

                “A troublesome sentiment.” A hand on the edge of rough slid through Dude’s short coat though Missy’s voice gentled. “You’ll be safe, you don’t have to be scared anymore, my little Dude.”

                Smoke-spun imagery flashed in her mind, dissipating impressions she wasn’t meant to be privy from Shiro.

                <She doesn’t suspect we’re anything other than a cat?> Pidge asked, a remarkable amount of calm masking her upset.

                <I’m making myself as natural as I can.> Hunk said. <Be the cat.>

                Keith unhelpfully supplied they’d heard the last part, which Hunk ignored for another sly admittance as he willingly entered the carrier. <If it’s not quick… I just don’t know how we escape this one.>

                “Make no mistake.” Missy’s tone frosted, stopping Roger as they were lifted up. “Soon my command will have forces necessary to counter Visser Admiral Holt and my job will get a lot easier. We don’t need any more obstructions dealing with these primitives. That includes you.”

                <Wait, did he say Holt, what— that can’t be my brother!> Pidge despaired, tidal wave buffeting Allura against the rocky outcropping of her apprehension. <No. He’s a Visser… how do I get him back now?!>

                <Nothing’s changed.> Keith attempted comfort, strained confidence along with the others’ chorus but Pidge’s voice shriveled, continued in her deprived isolation.

                <I can’t do this, I’m done.>

                Hunk yelling loudest of all, the carrier buckled.

                <Oriande gave me a chance to save my family! You stole it from me!>

                <Pidge! You keep going and none of us will survive!> Harsh yet Pidge reclaimed some of her senses, heeding Shiro to stay in morph. <You can’t give up. Not here, not now. This isn’t the time to stop seeking the truth.>

                <It’s not fair!>

                <No, it’s not, you’re right and I’m so sorry.> Shiro consoled as Pidge fell to silence. <But we have to have another shot at escaping, at helping Matt, right?>

                <Sure.> Pidge hollowly acknowledged.

                <As a bunch of useless fleas stuck to a tabby cat.> Keith added. <I’m not going out like this.>

                <No one is going anywhere, we stick together.> Allura barreled on in the face of her translator’s late distinction. <We help each other. Were our captors attentions’ gained?>

                <We’re okay. Our prison guard didn’t notice. I think. Now we’re stuck here. In animal jail.> Hunk’s joke fell flat.

                <Oriande doesn’t intervene except to bait us. What was even the point? We lose.> Pidge spoke without end in nonsensical loops. <Together we learned nothing.>

                Dawn of the event horizon clearing despite Pidge’s repetitive fog, chills wracked Allura’s tiny frame and she tuned out Hunk and Keith to focus on Shiro directly.

                <If we cannot win by force, let us hinder them another way.>

                <What are you suggesting?>

                She doesn’t respond, Pidge cutting in with more fatalistic rambling. <The pool’s layout, the storage sheds, the generator, what a great source of knowledge when we’re all so useless.>

                <It is as she says, Prince Shiro. That is what we know now and if we can use our advantage and stop the generator…> She chose her next words carefully. <It would be a great blow to their forces.>

                <Right. But first we need a way out.> Shiro spoke to the rest of the team. <We’re going for the generator. We need access to an empty storage shed. Then it’s battle morphs.>

                <That’s all well and good but paw beans don’t open cages, which we are currently still in.> Hunk pointed out. <Roger stepped outside, beyond the door.>

                <Then do whatever you have to do to get us out of here.>

                <Think this through, uh… Wait, he’s coming back!> Hunk’s fur rustled around her. <Oh, we’re good.>

                Hunk’s lack of response to their questioning swirled discord through Allura’s senses, and yet when he answered they’d been set free from the carrier facing an open door sans belled collar, her confused mind filled with voices.

                <Why would he do that?!> Keith demanded.

                <Be careful.> Shiro warned, Hunk darting down the hall. <It could be a trap.>

                <Another intervention by Oriande perhaps for such fortune.> Allura suggested, though casting about for logic seemed an error itself. <More likely an ulterior motive of the Galra.>

                <Definitely a trap.> Pidge said. <But what other options do we have?> 

                <Trust me, I’m taking it.> Hunk said, a peculiar silence following it as he wound his way toward their destination.

                Wasting no time once Hunk presented an all-clear, Allura leapt to morph out. Her eyesight returned first and the dusty ground faded from her vantage point as she regained mass. The floor consisted of compacted earth, the jut of weapon containers forming hulking shapes in the dim. With the rest of the team wholly human, they gathered in a huddle, an oasis protected by thin storage shed walls. Alteans and humans were not so distant as they took a moment to breathe. Not long, of course. And Allura forced herself to action first before the second thoughts and panic could settle over her like a mourner’s pall.

                <We are to halt the quintessence generator. Buy our cause some time.> She gripped the holophone in steady hands, its faint glow brief as she sent Lance a distracted yet similar message. He would receive it if Oriande fulfilled his cruel promise in turn. She looked up to their darting glances, questions reflected in their eyes of an entirely different nature than her own. And each in turn focused upon Shiro until she, too, aligned on the compass of him.

                “We decided we’re not stopping the machine. We’re destroying it for good.” Shiro kept his voice low. “And what better way than to return its’ power source to the rightful owner?”

                _We can’t._ She nearly spoke those words aloud, initial reaction tamped down. A plan defying logic, all sense, and yet if she could contact her people again… her own hope and stunned silence brought hushed voices.

                “We promised.” Hunk said simply and without hesitation. “So that’s what we’ll do.”

                “Oriande is a liar. We know where to strike, let’s take it.” Keith said, a steady faith in his words.

                “For your father too.” Pidge whispered, sadness piercing through her own with its familiarity. “If there’s a chance, Altea could help us.”

                Unspoken gratitude laced her speech, suffused the cramped air like the suns of home with a gentled warmth of their acknowledgement once again. The path of greatest risk and highest reward lay before them. They truly would not waver, her Paladins.

                A shrill blast peeled out, shattering the false haven. Allura’s ears twitched, an absurd pique of inward embarrassment flaring at such a gauche gesture lost on present company, and Pidge jumped with a little squeak, everyone else flinching at the warbling alarm.

                “It’s a lockdown—battle morphs!” Shiro hissed, stripes winding over his arms.

                Allura hastened to focus on the jaguar, pattern of rosettes guiding a bright mind to flutter against her own and the alarm worsened as her senses changed until it rotted into a buzzing ring. A manageable annoyance she met with an internal sigh.

                <Aw come on!> Keith snapped, flashing a black-rimmed tooth in contempt as he took in Pidge.

                <What?> Tiny bonobo fists balled up in defense.

                <Don’t worry, I got her.> With that, Hunk hefted her up on his shoulder, drew back a gorilla foot, and kicked the door open. <Let’s motor!>

                They stalked out of the shed predator and primate alike, nearly halfway when Allura scrunched her face, tasting the air, yet warning arrived too late. A group of scouts met their path.

                Her claws extended. <Olkari!>

                “Paladins!” An Olkari officer swore. “Alert Sendak of—” All wind left him and he never drew another breath after Shiro slammed into their forces.

                Each of them not far behind, Keith rushed into the fray a blur of teeth and claws. <Not the cat you expected to find, huh?> Heedless of their bodies, he roared when an angled blade sliced his thick pelt.

                No chance to avoid notice now, Allura’s powerful jaw clamped down on exposed vulnerabilities, and distantly the screech of metal scraped against her ears. Part of a thick door swung over her head, strength of it knocking several Olkari to the ground and rendering the last unconscious.

                Only minutes until another squadron discovered the ambushed Galra hosts, they pressed onward.

                <How bad is it?> Shiro prodded.

                <Just a scratch.> Keith said evenly. <It’s nothing.>

                Shiro left it at that and with their goal in sight, Hunk immediately tugged at the door, though it only shuddered on its hinges. Pidge jumped off Hunk’s shoulder, smacking the security screen to no avail.

                <Keith! You try opening the door.>

                <What? I can smell them—there’s more incoming Olkari!> Unfortunately confirming Allura’s suspicions aloud, Keith swung his head, scanning the maze of buildings.

                <It worked before.> Pidge reasoned.

                Keith did so, a lion’s paw laid upon the screen before the lock tripped. They slipped inside. Without time frozen, the mechanism clicked into place, shutting them inside with the generator.

                Bathed in pink light, Allura staggered at the incessant hum of the quintessence. The balance of life and destruction oscillated behind her eyes each time she blinked. However the crystal spoke louder, the memory of it still fresh. _Hers_. One piece of the ship, one last memory of a journey with her father and his guidance. He’d checked her staff easily during sparring sessions, the diplomacy of peacekeeping in her expected dress, and while she was not tempted by sweets as when a child, _my dear Allura,_ placated her much the same after the discomfort of ceremony abated. His face ever kind, the last sight before she awoke deserted in a new world, the pain and a quiet vow once rescue tided bereavement all for this solitary demand. Possible and real with intention.

                And now the Galra would never again leverage an Altean crystal to prey and wield against the people of Earth if they could help it.

                <Um.> Pidge started. <How do we get the crystal out?>

                <Look there.> Hunk lumbered to the raised console, its screen unresponsive. <You’re up again, buddy.>  The screen opened after Keith’s swipe, moments later Hunk groaning at the agitated chime.

                <Another password?!> Pidge asked about symbols and variation, clambering over Hunk’s arm, the possibility of hundreds of combinations spiraling into debate.

                <Let’s just open sesame this thing.> Hunk’s fingers danced over the screen, a pressurized release emitted from the generator and the conveyor moved.

                <Good going.> Pidge climbed onto the pipe railing dividing them from the generator proper, gazing at the belt below before turning back to the console. <This is my wheelhouse. The chimes are different but we got the first one correct,  and if Galra tech makes any sense at all…>

                _Hardly the case_. Allura scoffed within her mind. But she left them to it, her grasp of common Galran shaky at best, set to task at another objective.

                Behind the generator the brightest of the quintessence glimmered like a sallow imitation of juniberry petals. Stored at a great height, she rolled her shoulders.  The lowest shelf towered above her. _Can I make this?_ Power coiled in confidence suffused every muscle. _Of course._ And the jaguar’s answer prevailed in truth when she cleared the height, claws retracted for a graceful landing.

                <What are you doing?> Shiro strode over, neck craned as she gained another level.

                <High grade quintessence—I’m destroying it.> She batted at a canister, all cat-like delight at the empty container crashing to the ground.

                Shiro offered his help and soon he caught up. Perhaps that long ago training benefitted his climbing, the memory of him unable to reach her a lifetime away. <At least I can now follow you.> As if he’d read her thoughts. But no, she hadn’t voiced them. He needed to acclimate to a body so unlike his own. <It all paid off, in the end.>

                _A game — play,_ the notion rose against her focus, jaguar meeting every fallen tumble with great fun though she couldn’t hear its descent, the quintessence hum overwhelming. Paws on her quarry, no greater satisfaction lay in the lurid glow spilt upon the ground, its usefulness as mana seeping to nourishing earth. Though opposite their path, Keith wreaked havoc upon the lowest shelf.

                <Guys, I hear something.>  Keith said, his ears rotating for its source. He froze, alert.

                Hunk and Pidge still worked at the console. The generator functioned yet with a closer look, Allura noted the box housing the crystal dimmed and the pinkish tone faded from the room altogether. Hunk cheered, high-five shared with Pidge across the console as she stretched to meet it from the railing.

                <Get down!>

                A concussive blast crumpled the door, metal giving way to a small gap. Another widened it, bodies on the other side. Again. The shot cleared the room, struck the generator itself, glancing off the sparking console, and for one terrible moment Pidge teetered on the broken railing, gravity striking its claim.

                From this direction, Pidge seemed impossibly small, debris scattered around her. Hunk jumped in after her. A chorus of her name from all angles and pleas to her unmoving form. Taking the lack of blood as a positive sign, Allura extended a branch budding her dearest wish.

                <Your journey does not end here. Get up, paladin.> Allura said, crouched down as Olkari filtered into the room. <Who do you fight for, Pidge? You must wake for them.>

                Pidge shivered then bolted upright to their collective sigh of relief, Hunk rearing back at the force of her sit. Studying the metal box sporting a gouge from blaster fire, she stuttered, standing on steadying legs. <Hunk, get me out.>

                <No can do. Whoa, take it easy!>

                Pidge snatched up a length of pipe. She used it as a lever, flexing the tear wider until she unceremoniously dropped the tool. Careful of the edges, she wriggled inside.

                Hunk gazed upward to the shadows turned soldiers from Allura’s vantage point. <Hurry— we’ve got company.>

                With the proof of their existence in glass like crushed starlight and dented metal outlining the perimeter, the Olkari roamed the room— yet their Galra, so determined to crush their hosts’ instincts following an inclination rooted in suppression, in dominance and affirming inferiority, never looked up.

                “Insurgents or no, we have an intruder. Infractions will not be tolerated.” Allura read the lips of their previous captor, an Olkari in the garb of a patrol leader. “My second. Captain Sendak will never be informed of this.”

                Their second saluted, twisted phrase of Olkari culture alighting a righteous fury within her. Lacking an outlet, she held her position until most of the Olkari departed.

                <I did it, I did it! The crystal is ours!> Pidge squirmed from the box, prize grasped in the expanse of both arms.

                Before the console, the single leader’s posture tensed as a readout stuttered. “Fetch the head engineer.” An alarm pulsed and he spun on his heel, exclaiming to unseen allies stood vigil outside the door. “Disarm that at once!”

                Clinging to Hunk’s back, Pidge tucked the crystal under her arm, peeking over his shoulder as the Olkari started for his comrades.  Keith pounced, knocking him out. He headed for the door, its crumpled remains tripping up Allura’s footing as she and Shiro took care of the fleeing soldiers.

                <Mission accomplished.> Hunk intoned, coming in last. <Now how do we get out of here?>

                <The tunnels are a taujeer stronghold. Barracks are a no-go unless you want to bunker down there.> Punctuated by a humorless laugh, Shiro strode ahead, each of them following. <Through the spa, the way we came. It’s unfortified with the pool under lockdown.> He assessed their silence, a flash of the void—startling Allura in its clarity—intertwined with his hopeful conviction. <We’ll make a way.>

 

 

                Chased by a throng of hosts, Pidge disappeared under the veiled catwalk first, her weight escaping the Olkari guards’ notice. Hunk followed after and yet the skirmish ended by the time she, flanked by Shiro and Keith, scaled the rock face, the crowd below them a frothing mass. Hunk had lifted an Olkari blaster from a stirring guard—his offenses excelled in close combat, but with their leg at an angle such skill could no longer accommodate, it distilled him to further powerlessness. Hunk held the gun awkwardly, hands sticky with drying blood.

                <You’re hurt.> Pidge said plaintively, falling behind in her ambling along the narrow catwalk.

                <Let’s just keep moving.> The limp in Hunk’s gait shrank before his inner strength. <Speed it up guys.>

                <You can fit on my shoulders.> Shiro said, nearly at a kneel. <Hop on.>

                Crystal nestled tight, a primate straddled a tiger, the image ushering adrenaline-fueled giggles.

                In a step, they tapered to screeching screams.

                The circular beam had pierced from below through the curtain, flash of light departing the heavy scent of burning fur and flesh. Allura’s heart seized. Part of Shiro’s forepaw and shoulder were simply gone, an ear taken with it. Pidge lost most of her foot, the skin cauterized from heat.

                Shiro stumbled forward, Pidge’s shriek echoed in her ears. Allura and Hunk neared the end of the catwalk when a wave of color flooded her mind, the implication a desolate landscape.

                <No. Never.> Allura confessed, unable to provide any comfort other than a simple promise.

                Keith protested, trembling. <I’m not leaving you. Remember, I’ve got—>

                _Tap-tap_. A deafening shot of gunfire.

                Keith cried out, his side a mosaic of blue mingled dotted purple. An arc of red splattered the metal floor. He snarled, roaring outright as he stood his ground.

                Sendak aimed another shot.

                <Get down!> Hunk fired, the blast crumpling  the walkway. Leaning at a precarious angle, the walkway creaked. Shiro, Pidge and Keith cleared the fallout. Not sparing a glance, they ran away.

                <Taujeer! Hurry!>

                Hunk fired upon them, most forfeiting chase for an easy meal. Shiro lagged behind, his pace exploited by a desperate glory-seeking taujeer. The bloated mass of taujeer collapsed, flailing in throes as bitter heat flooded Allura’s mouth. Cold laced her side.

                She ignored it.

                <Give Pidge to me.> Allura whispered, brooking no room for protest, making the exchange while Keith and Hunk provided cover.

                Allura forged ahead, Pidge’s fingers clenched in her coat. <Do not let go.>

                <I won’t.> Pidge swore. <Not for anything.>

                The crystal dug into Allura’s back, her lungs burned, stamina depleted as they reached the passageway to the spa. Taujeer and now Olkari on their heels, a verve, a joy belayed it all. She bounded up the stairs, Galra filling up the passage with their threats immaterial as she veered through the tight dirt-packed turn.

                The scent of fragrant wood and blood mixed in the dark of the spa as she collected herself for a few spare seconds.

                The hidden door slammed shut, Hunk the last one through. <I collapsed the passage with an energy blast. That should slow them down.> Not desiring to tempt fate, they fled to the back alley, fetching their duffel and retrieving Dude.

 

 

                “What do we do with him?” Pidge asked the moment they returned to Allura’s dome, gesturing to the repurposed dog-now-cat carrier in Shiro’s hands.

                <Not let the bastard out that’s for sure.> Lance said, flitting from his perch to the arm of the couch where Hunk and Pidge had collapsed. <And the space mice thought they were scared of me.>  He scoffed.

                A dim note of alarm from her connection with the mice sang against her mind as Keith knelt in front of the carrier on the table, the barred hinges allowing Dude the freedom to extend one paw. A thin red line bloomed in its wake across his finger. He jerked back in annoyance. Dude tentatively stepped out, shrinking back as Keith reached for him again.

                Hunk tore his gaze away from the bloodied Olkari gun set on the low table. “I got him.” He bundled Dude in his vest and carried him back to the couch.

                “He did always like you best.” Keith admitted.

                “Hm, I understand him a little now.” Hunk scratched under Dude’s chin, his lap full of content housecat. “But I can’t take him in, campus doesn’t allow pets.”

                Keith sank into the couch, throwing an arm over his face. “Then leave him on Missy’s doorstep, I don’t know.”

                “That’s cold even for you.” Hunk said. “No, no way. Who knows what Sendak could be capable of after he disappeared twice — only to show up again without a collar? Not an option.”    

                “Fine, take him to a shelter.”

                Hunk bristled.

                “Let’s sleep on it, guys,” Shiro cut in. “It’s been a long day.”

                “Princess Allura? Um.” Pidge shuffled from the couch, her voice seemed small though she steadied as she went on. “My father — well, what you’re going through, you still have your memories, and the Galra could never take that away from you.  The crystal was something you cherished, right?”

                “Yes, very much so.” In that way, they did share an understanding. Allura poised herself, a swell of affection bubbling up from the center what seemed an endless well of grief. “Paladin Pidge you truly have been remarkable.” And then words failed her, Pidge’s own demurring a muffled tangle in the span of her arms. “Thank you.”

                Allura pulled away from the hug, taking in each of her Paladins, her team, in turn. “All of you.”  

                An unhappy mew sprung from Hunk’s lap.

                “Maybe I can find him something on my shift.” Hunk ground his palms into his eyes as if he could drive the weariness from them. Gingerly, Hunk coaxed Dude off his lap. “I’ve got papers to write… I can’t wait on you buddy.”

                Pidge sighed. “I don’t cat. But I’ll bring back a can of tuna from home.”

                With a note of forced cheer, Hunk called out. “Chuck or sirloin?”

                <Neither.> Lance said. <Don’t worry about me, I’ll hunt.>

                A start-stop, Hunk’s mouth opened then shut. His empathic face — distracted by Lance’s private audience — betrayed his thoughts. He simply stated _alright_ , the slope of his shoulders steep as he walked out.

                Without Hunk’s attentions, Allura stowed the gun away. The refresher would remove all trace of its history and she could muse how to dispose of it later. Right now, she intended to redirect her racing thoughts to the boons of the day. One good, terrible but definitive victory in a year. Small, yet how the Galra would adapt to the blow they’d dealt only time foresaw. Only time could allow them any hope of continued resistance. Oriande was wrong, his intervention only that, on its face.

                Battle-high worn through to Allura’s bones, her contemplations were broken by Shiro, his outline sharp against the dusk. “I’m walking Pidge home; it’s getting dark.”

                Their quiet voices ceased instantly as the door shut behind them.

                “Window’s open, if you need it.” Keith cut through the silence of seconds.

                <…Are you sure?>

                “You hate flying at night,” he replied as fact. “I offered.”                           

                <Don’t wait up. Highways are my best friend, maybe I can find a rabbit pizza before it gets too late.> Lance flew away, his _good night_ tinged with a melancholy Allura hated recognizing in his tone.

                “Takashi doesn’t have to worry about me, I’m gonna fly home.” Hovering in the door, Keith palmed his nape, block of night fading behind him as he took a step forward. “Lance comes here a lot. With you, I— does he ever eat in front of you?”

                An abrupt turn of topics but she’d heard worse. She would and had never shown disapproval of Lance’s means of survival, but no, not that she recalled, expressing as much to him.

                “Do you think you could—” He glared at a far off point, the words materialized but he backed down from their challenge first, hands jammed into his pockets. “Never mind.”

                Expression unchanged, he curled inward, mumbling his way through parting pleasantries, the air taken with him.

                The dome’s slow replenishing power reduced the sconces to a simulacrum of darkness. Dude curled up in Hunk’s vest, though whether he had relinquished it intentionally or not Allura couldn’t say. Content to stay where he was, Allura attuned her ears lest it change while she glossed over data readouts. How had it escaped her notice, how Lance troubled her and how lost she was, as adrift as the quintessence that eventually beckoned Oriande to their notice. She braced against the console, her teeth set on edge. Her own choices brought them here, her responsibility a burden upon them all.

                It’s too much.

                Platt scurried across her hand, a soft pulse echoed throughout the dome and she wiped her damp cheeks. Weak eyes or no, she would meet Prince Shiro’s gaze. It was no less than he deserved.

                “Princess?” Shiro called as he approached on unsure footing, his hand out in guidance. All fingers intact. “I brought food for Dude…”

                Redirecting power from another resource, she rose the sconces to candlelight and Shiro stopped fumbling in the dark. He offered the tin to Dude who, shy and unsure, nibbled at it. After a moment, Shiro stood near to her side. “Allura?”

                And already she failed.

                “The hour grows late, perhaps we should reconvene tomorrow for the next mission.”

                “I didn’t come here to — for once, it can wait.” Shiro’s concern flared and seen through to the truth, she steadied herself by its compass.

                “Very well, Prince Shiro.”

                A lie by omission was still a lie.

                “Why do you call me prince?”

                <You are our leader. It’s a rank in Altea given to those whose deeds merit the title.>

                “You covered for me so I’d not have to morph Galra. I look to you all of the time, if anyone is a Prince here, it’s you Princess Allura.”

                The very idea caused an unbidden laugh to escape, and when she chanced a look, Shiro’s mouth curled into a pleased smile, all the more becoming on him due to its source.

                “Then I’ve misunderstood. If you could not be, care to explain it again?”

                And so she does. A wartime prince, and a great many Altean princes honored their titles through achievement, regardless of gender. There was only one princess.

                It was a lonely thing.

                Languishing in the quiet despite sensing his distress, her voice foreign and small, clung to the void. <I worry for them.>

                “What about yourself?”

                <Oriande said I was the last of the Chosen.> The words were too terrible to speak aloud. <What has happened to Altea?>

                Shiro began to speak as if he’d thought better of it and kept it to himself, whatever question answered when she folded into his arms in a gesture she knew. Safety wasn’t quite a mirage within the hold they had upon each other, so she tarried, the evidence of her tears already forgiven when she saw his own eyes.

                “We’ll find out. We have the crystal,” Shiro murmured and she counted him as one of the few friends she had across the galaxy. “Do you want to look at the stars with me?” 

                As before, they lay atop the dome’s barrier, simply being in the wonder once they each took for granted. In mystery and ease, an hour passed, and the night sky granted her sight glimmers of grey hair lacing Shiro’s forelock.

            

                In the end, Oriande returned to the Paladins in a shared dream—as one, they denied their offer.


	12. The Supposition

     _Everyone calls me Pidge now. My friends at school. Mom, Matt. Especially Matt. I miss him. All I have is my mind, my faith—my body seems immaterial. A chance, a choice, a change._

_Even if Shiro gave me a way out, I won’t stop until my brother is safe._

_And this is a war. Sometimes I forget. I want to, when things seem normal, when it’s just Mom and me. When I forget and tell her a funny story and she laughs the way she used to before Dad died._

_Sometimes I want to be Katie._

                Concepts learned a year ago droned from the teacher at the front of the classroom. Running through the day on little sleep, Pidge stifled a yawn in the crook of her elbow while breezing through an assignment for another class. Eyes watering, she wiped the tears, blunt gesture effectively knocking her glasses with a skittering clatter onto the linoleum floor.

                Maybe Matt was right. She didn’t need them.

                Before she slid out of her chair completely, a hand offered them back. A hand attached to a person, whose smile she should recognize but doesn’t, where her mouthed _thanks_ was. Pidge never had a problem with names before. It was the last period before lunch. She blamed her bad memory on hunger, though when the bell rang she suppressed a jolt.

                She blinked, owlish and slow. _Shake it off._ Bag on her shoulder, a voice at the door called her name, one of her debate club friends hovering in the doorway.

                Though she’d quit the club last year, they remained her friends even as she drifted away. Still, Brenner continued to say nothing as he fell into step beside her. Pidge’s patience wore thin as they wove through people in the hall.

                “Do you need something?” Pidge said. “I’m not going to tutor you.” The words came harsher than she meant. “Sorry.”

                “Huh—no? It’s not that.” Brenner sputtered. “Pidge, you seem… different lately? Are you okay?”

                She stopped yanking on the lock, failed combination rendering it resistant and her armpits prickled cool shock-sweat in a mix of embarrassment and fear. Behind that concern could hold an alien hell-bent on destroying their world, Brenner himself powerless to fight back.

                “I’m fine.” She clawed the elastic out of her hair, the smooth length of her hair a reminder—braids are for battle. She opened her locker, flexing her foot while she swapped supplies, grabbing her assignments and lunch. All five toes. Still there.

                She pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

                “I wanted to show you something.”

                “I’m hungry.”

                “Don’t you mean hangry?” He laughed at his own joke. “It’s really cool, promise. Won’t take long.”

                She hummed, skeptical but following along. “Doubt it’s cooler than my sandwich.”

                They walked to the library, Pidge staring hard at the _no food, no drinks_ signs as they entered. Her soft lunch bag swished against her leg like a windbreaker as Brenner led her to a computer in the back corner. Away from windows. Away from everyone.

                A good position.

                He logged into the computer, fishing in his pocket for crumpled paper while the video site loaded at a crawl.

                “So no hints?”

                “No,” Brenner trailed off, concentrating on the post-it of numbers as he typed. “It’s a surprise.”

                It’s a private video. The title loaded first. Their city, each word capitalized without regard following it.

                She wasn’t hungry anymore.

                On closed-circuit television, snowed with static, a familiar alleyway backdrops her own monkey cameo, jaguar carrying her beyond the camera’s fixed angle. A bizarre menagerie fled between garbage bins and cardboard boxes.

                “This is the weirdest part.” 

                In the last second before the video cut off, the crystal glimmered, pressed against her chest. A weight not unlike it returned as a sharp edge in her lungs. She cleared her throat. Clamped shut eyes substituted a brief reprieve and her responding laugh, huffed hollow quiet against the side of her fist. The video froze at the start, flashing remnants, shapes of color fading as her eyes adjusted.

                “That’s so weird, what is that supposed to be?” She agreed while clinching her hands, flexing them out to cover their tremor. “Play it again.”

                He complied and she could not look away.

                No date, not even a watermark. The footage scrubbed clean of identifiers. No other description or video belonged to the account, their username a string of nonsensical numbers. It’s only six seconds long, stretched into thirty.

                As safety precaution she’d left the holophone concealed at home, but its absence burnt a hole in her pocket. Shiro or Allura could help her.

                “Neat, huh?” Brenner looked over at her expectantly.

                In lieu of answering, she defaulted to burning, rapid-fire questions. “What do you think it is? Why’d you show me this?”

                “I don’t know—it might be full of clues for a new movie trailer!” Brenner tapped at the UI, images stop-motion as he nosed closer to the screen. “Or a video game?”

                The tension bled out of her shoulders.

                “Think we get a prize if we figure it out? You probably will, figure it out, I mean.” His face tinged pink. “That’s why I asked you, actually, cause you’re the smartest person I know.”

                “Definitely, we can definitely figure this out.” Accustomed to saying _we,_ the falsity nearly blind-sided her now. If Brenner entangled himself in something like this, she’d never sleep again. Nothing stayed as innocuous as a mystery movie trailer anymore.

                Her hands begged for occupation. She peeled back the wrapper of her sandwich, librarian busy at her desk and thankfully beyond the scent of pickles.

                “It’s really amazing CGI.” Pidge eyed the time stamp in the description box, uploaded a day ago with almost one thousand views. A lot for an unlisted video. “Where’d you find this?”

                “One of my friends online found it on a conspiracy board or something. You know me, I’m a skeptic.” He skipped around the clip, taking in the one-eared tiger again. “Maybe he was trying to prove a point. It looks so realistic. Even on the crappy camera.”

                “You can hardly tell the difference with computers, man.” She talked around a mouthful, hoping Brenner smelt turkey on rye, not complete bull. “Maybe it has something to do with ALLEY.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “Probably the name of the project.” Pidge knuckled off the smear of crumbs at her mouth to point at the only fully capitalized word in the title.

                “That’s a great theory!” As Brenner ran away with her idea an old flare of wistful nostalgia too deep for her sixteen years consumed her; her friends arguing point and counterpoint like conversations were meetings, outside beneath the bleachers on a nice day or huddled around a lunch table when it wasn’t.

                Not quite ready to leave Brenner on his quest for a slice of shitty cafeteria pizza, she trailed after him in line before she joined the rest of her friends. She chewed the inside of her cheek, cutting him off mid-ramble while they were relatively alone. “Who else knows about this?”  

                “Huh? Everyone knows Dragon Cat Simulator is the best worst game ever.” He said _everyone_ in a tone Pidge knew meant just him. “You can die by falling through the map.” He laid a napkin over his food like a blanket, the paper translucent with orange grease. “Without warning.”

                Oh. She’d zoned and drifted off until he started going on about weird indie games. It did sound fun though she hadn’t the time to play.

                “Don’t tell them about the video you showed me.” She jerked her head at their friend group, her tone more serious than it merited. “It’s fun if it’s a secret. This can be, like, our thing, right?”

                Brenner’s confused frown dissolved into the same grin as when he won a debate match. “We can gloat over this for at least a week. Done.”

                They stayed after school and Pidge jammed her modified portable drive into the port of the same computer they’d chosen earlier. She doubted East Garrison had anything on her usual haunts but better safe than sorry while they snuck around the web. After his twentieth time viewing the clip, the video buffered. Impatient, he clicked refresh and Brenner’s face fell as the screen loomed empty.

                Surprised yet not at all sorry, Pidge clapped him on the back. “Tough break.”

                Later, she lied through her teeth pretending she hadn’t already downloaded the video.

                

                In the barn Shiro handed over Rover’s carrier, and emptied of Dude’s presence or presents, Pidge set it in a corner. “No-kill, right?”

                Shiro nodded. “Two towns over, and the place looked busy and nice.”

                “I’m gonna miss that little guy,” Hunk said.

                “He’ll find a good home soon.”

                “Yeah, you can only go up after a genocidal mouthpiece.”

                Shiro flinched at Hunk’s comment but recovered, getting them back on track for their meeting.

                Pidge spoke up. “Actually, I need to show you guys something.”

                Everyone crowded around her laptop save Lance, who watched the pixelated forms of the team from the rafters while Pidge queued it again. Surrounded by her friends, an _oh crap_ moment suffocated the barn as she replayed the video, binding them all in solidarity. Emphasis led Pidge’s best guess as Allura  swore in a string of untranslated words.

                <Agreed.> Lance said. <We are so screwed.>

                “I knew it, I knew we were gonna get caught one day.” Hunk said, hands pinned under his chin like he was protecting himself from whatever the answer. “What does this mean?”               

                “My friend thought it was some kind of viral marketing.”

                “We can only hope the impression holds.” Allura said.

                “Take care of one problem, three more show up.” Shiro mumbled then pasted on a bland smile. “Good work on taking it down before anyone else could find it.”

                “I didn’t take it down. Someone else did.” Slowly closing her laptop, she winced. “But aside from the board it was posted on I can’t find a single blip of its existence anymore. Wait, that’s not true. There was a new thread with a screen cap but it was locked and purged within an hour. Other than that, no local news feeds, nothing.”

                <So we might’ve escaped the nightly news?>

                “What if we didn’t, what if we leaked it anyway?”

                All eyes turned to Keith.

                Apparently, he needed prompting. “Why?”

                <Diving for those five minutes, colour me surprised.>

                Keith shot Lance an annoyed look. “No, not fame. The Galra are as secretive as we are, if people knew what was going on—” Keith stopped himself, heeding Hunk’s lifted hand.

                “Wait a sec. If even 2% of the population were anything like me, we’re looking at a mass hysteria situation, not some grand fight.”

                Allura interjected. “Hunk is right. If we don’t reveal the truth in a more controlled method, it could prove disastrous.”

                “Victory or death,”  Shiro said, his stare piercing a thousand yards distance. “If we press the Galra, it would force them to open combat. We can’t risk that.”

                Keith’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “So what do we do about it, nothing?”

                Shiro scrubbed a hand over his face with a sigh.

                “I, for one, am totally fine with that.” Hunk voiced the apparent consensus of the room, but while Shiro talked about utilizing the crystal properly, Pidge connected with Keith’s stare and they reached a silent agreement.

                Everyone filed out, parting their separate ways, yet Keith hung back in the dust of the barn. The crunch of gravel faded with their footsteps before he turned to her, arms folded.

                “The quicker we figure this out, the better.”

                She agreed and they lobbed theories back and forth. It almost surprised her how easily they wound up on the same page—if anything were to be done, tracking the source of the video itself made the most sense.

                As she handed over her laptop Pidge’s jaw cracked in a yawn, her vision blurred at the edges by the onslaught of tears. It’s a testament to her tiredness she acquiesced without stamping her foot after he urged her to take a nap. Keith sketched on graph paper the rectangle of the map app he’d pulled onto the screen. He’d watch her back all the same. Her eyes slipped shut and all thought drifted away.

                Thirteen minutes. Enough time for the chill of the slatted floor to cling to her legs, Keith to finish the hand-drawn map—a heavy handed circle on their target, and the rustle of feathers to blow their covert op to hell. Still, her head cleared—ponytail dropping over her shoulder as she peered at the little map and half-listened to Lance in her head—and she felt more like herself.

                She plaited her hair, knots and all, the rope of it down her back as she took the stairs two at a time to change into her morphing outfit.

 

                 On outstretched wings, Pidge flew with Lance—if _with_ meant several hundred feet lower in the body of a pigeon—until an aerial view matching Keith’s graphite lines appeared below them. _There_. She circled down, landing out of range yet not out of sight of the monitoring camera. Her eyes picked up the reflection of the lens—a camera so obvious now without the haze of fear and pain clouding her mind— an impassive observer of the golden tinged hues bathing the alleyway, sun staining the sky fiery orange above. The camera itself attached to a looming building which displayed a peeling _for lease_ sign. Why would a vacant business install working security cameras? Though as she flapped to land on the rust spotted roof, a series of clicks, distinct from the white noise of cars and passersby, emanated from within the warehouse. Long-short- short-long, the clicks spun into an odd rhythm.

                <Guys, I hear activity on the inside, machinery maybe?>

                Still a dot in the air, Keith skimmed the perimeter. <Let’s get in there and find out.> He groaned in frustration. <I wish Hunk were here, he could kick down the door.>

                <This is a bird mission. For birds.> Lance scoffed. <And you’ve got the best right here.>

                Lance descended below the roof line while Pidge traversed the angled roof. Her feet slipped on the smooth surface of a skylight. More glinting rectangles—another skylight—spanned the roof in even spacing. She backed up, wobbling to focus her vision beyond her reflection. Far below the depths of the infinite space and grease and dust stuck to the window smudged a hint of movement.

                <We could peck politely at the door, put on a show, give a whole routine…> Lance buoyed high on a thermal, each talon grasping something tight. <Or make a real entrance!> A stone plummeted and the rock struck the furthest skylight, an elliptical labyrinthine web spread from point of impact.

                <No way you make that shot twice.> Keith said, disbelief softening his taunt.

                The clicking narrowed to a few short taps then nothing.

                The sound brought Pidge back to childhood, when she and her brother had invented a new language, the two of them sharing a love of mystery movies and needless complication borne from protecting the dire innocent secrets of adolescence. Back then, Matt had indulged her, yet when her friends received the codebreakers manual they balked, preferring simple runes she instantly grew bored of due to their simplicity. Those clicks meant something— their silence, more.

                <Hm, encore…> Lance dropped the second rock, a jagged hole pierced through the glass.

                Beneath the soup of grime flashed something akin to the twinkle of fireflies, no more charming than her last first-hand experience. She suppressed a shiver.

                Faster than anything, Keith disappeared through the broken skylight in a blur of grey-and-white wings, his flight velocity disorienting her. She tumbled, glimpsing a streak of rust colored feathers by the time she righted herself.

                <Wait up—we’re not that fast—what the heck is that?!>

                <Later, he’s getting away!>

                <Keith!>

                Beyond her sight, something heavy fell to the ground and a door slammed shut, an indignant chirrup almost covered in its hollow echo.

                Keith’s voice shaking in her mind, Pidge dropped through the skylight, shards of glass tinkling to the concrete floor in her wake. She grazed a pillar with her wings.  Boxes, headless mannequins lined the space, the strewn remnants of a squatter littering the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs. An overturned electric lantern strobed its light for a few seconds before stuttering out. Landing on top of a makeshift plywood and milk crate table sat a strange machine no larger than a loaf of bread.

                Pidge eyed the machine, its screen dormant, a touch pad covered with distantly familiar symbols—Galra in origin. Keith’s groan echoed in her mind while Lance laughed aloud in a gleeful rasp.

                <You look raggedy. Morph back so we can get out of this creepy dump.>

                Pidge turned in time to Keith flat on his back, talons windmilling like a bicycle’s spokes before he stood altogether crumpled.

                <I nicked him.>

                <And you let a door kick your butt. Who really won here?> Half in shadow, Lance perched nearby Keith, who paced the dusty floor, his waddle somehow surly.

                <He left something, I heard it fall.>  He wandered over to a heap of boxes scattered in their chase.

                She examined the machine closer while Keith and Lance tipped over boxes but through it all, she felt watched in turn. She stared where the shadows coalesced and a weighted presence met her gaze. Yellow eyes. A nagging memory detonated into ash as they widened infinitesimally and she shrieked without thought.

                <Stop screaming!>

                <Pidge, what’s wrong?> Lance calmed her, listening through stuttering, her winged gestures beyond where he had blocked her line of sight and the barest hint of a whispered shut door injured against her senses.

                <You don’t see it?> Their twin denials rattled her conviction but when she angled past, nothing but the vague shadows of mannequins marked her fears.

                <I thought I saw a Galra.> Embarrassment crept down her spine. <Like Zarkon.>

                Keith grunted in acknowledgment. <We’d know if there were Galra here, Pidge, especially Zarkon. He’s hard to miss.>  

                <Pretty sure he’s bathed in so much evil juice, even I could smell him from here.> If it were anyone she trusted less, she’d question him. But Lance held no mockery for her. <Whoever it was is gone now.>

                <Look, we found some stuff—whatever that thing is and this.> Flat and half the size of a compact disc, the emblem rang metallic underneath Keith’s talons. <We’ll figure this out after you get some sleep.>

                No. She would see this through to the end.

                Tucking the pin in the waistband of his pants after he morphed out, snack cake wrappers crackled under Keith’s feet as he approached the machine they bundled up in moldy t-shirts, leaving the crumbs to pests.

 

            Sun dipping below the trees, they reached the edge of the forest. Abandoning his motorcycle, Keith followed on foot, backpack heavy with their discovery while she and Lance flew overhead in the half-dark.

                Lance waited on a low branch and Pidge shook the shadowed distractions from her mind after she landed where Allura’s invisible dome occupied the clearing. Keith’s distant footsteps through the underbrush faded as she morphed. An evening breeze glanced off her skin, swallowed up as she stepped into the revealed doorway—disconcerting, how a pathway opened up from nothing, almost like a hologram.

                Allura’s dome interior the same as ever, though a bit darker than usual, and Pidge calmed in the face of its stability. A door swished open.

                “Paladins Pidge and Lance—what brings you here?” Allura’s voice floated disembodied yet warm from another room. Pidge’s gaze stuck on a plain black bag, a class rubric sticking out labeled ASTR 201. Uh-oh. She tore her eyes away, meeting Allura as she rounded a corner, the rectangle of light behind her vanishing from the moment the door closed again.

                She blinked hard after Allura adjusted the lights from the console. “I just, uh.” She took a deep breath as Shiro walked in and the words left her in a rush.  “We-found-something-behind-the-spa.”

                That got their attention.

                “Come again?” Shiro’s gentle curiosity gathered into a raised brow when she repeated herself. “So the two of you—” A muffled crackle reminiscent of a chime resounded in the dome, cutting Shiro off, and a moment later Keith appeared, pack hiked up his shoulder. “Now it makes sense.”

                “We agreed to let it be.” Allura ventured, darting a glance at Keith’s unkempt hair. “Where were you exactly?”

                “We were scouting an abandoned building and found the surveillance camera from the video.” Keith shrugged. “One thing led to another, you know how it goes.”                             

                “No. I don’t. Enlighten me.” Shiro said, clearly unimpressed by such a vague response. “I know you all wanted to help Allura much as rest of us but we had an agreement.”

                “There was nobody there, like, the squatter ran. So I guess we scared him off?”

                “Scouting.” Shiro’s expression clouded at her words. “Breaking and entering and you had to get Pidge involved? Keith…”

                <It was my idea to break in through the skylights.> Lance interrupted. <Swoop in, swoop out, easy.>

                Shiro glanced between the three of them as Allura spoke. “Intel without discovery is always best Lance, but derelict or no, you’re hurt. I have an Earth kit. I’ll heal you.”

                <This papercut? No need for that since it stopped bleeding—don’t trouble yourself over this little talon.>

                Allura ignored his protests as she left to grab a med kit.

                “You can’t even see your feet.” Keith said. “How am I not surprised that escaped your notice too?”

                <What are you trying to say?> Lance rounded on Keith, his feathers ruffled. <I know I’m just a bird but you don’t have to—> He huffed. <Clearly, I’m fine. We had stuff to do. It wasn’t important.>

                “Why do hate help so much?”

                <You’re one to talk, mister freaky space burn.>

                Keith’s mouth snapped shut for a millisecond before he fired back. “You want your foot to fall off?”

                <If it saves me from this conversation!> Lance quipped.

                “Not happening.” Shiro rubbed his forehead like it staved off a headache, like he needed to choose his words carefully. “Splitting up never ends well for us.”

                “We were together, except for when we went through the skylight...” Pidge trailed off as she caught in her periphery Keith fervently shaking his head. Don’t speak.

                “So you guys didn’t learn anything from last time.” His voice dropped lower, so controlled yet easy to imagine it mushrooming the opposite spectrum. As Shiro pressed his palms together tight—red ink smudged on the side of his right hand like blood—Allura returned with the med kit.

                “The bandage shouldn’t be too tight to make sure it stops infection.” Keith said as she popped open the lid.

                “Then you can do it.” She handed the kit to Keith.

                <Oh no. Allura, you really sicced the mangler on me? I thought we were friends.> Lance dodged as Keith reached for him. <At least buy me dinner first.>

                “Good thing air is in my budget.” Keith muttered while he uncapped a disinfectant bottle, Lance immediately complaining about battery acid.

                <This is cruel torture!> Lance jerked out of his grasp again. <You’re as gentle as a bulldozer, sicko.>

                “Do you enjoy being difficult?”

                “Pot meet kettle.” Pidge couldn’t help herself from grinning despite their twin glares.

                Keith frowned the rest of his way through patching Lance up. “There. I’m done. You can stop overreacting now.”

                <Overre— you put me in a cast!>

                “I thought you two were over this.” A warning, a promise in Shiro’s tone effectively stifled whatever remark laid at the end of Lance’s deep mental exhale. “We had a really close call last time and our luck won’t last forever. For the record, all of you are too important to lose.” Still weary, he deflated, all at once much older than his years suggested. “Now, you found something? What was it?”

                Keith dug into his bag without explanation, freeing the machine. With no table in sight, they entered the adjoining room after Allura switched the lights and he set the machine next to Shiro’s stack of papers. Lance perched atop a high-backed chair and Pidge’s curiosity surmounted her admonished silence when Allura’s mouth twisted in recognition.

                “Do you know what it is Princess Allura?” Pidge looked expectantly at her, the distinct feeling a silent conversation took place as Shiro’s face shifted in minute increments.

                “If the Galra have waylaid my messages to Altea, this communicator could be the key to circumventing their blockades.” Her hands ghosted over its surface. “With the crystal, I should be able to produce a signal strong enough to reach home.”

Her wordless thanks wove like vines through a trellis, hopeful and sincere.

                “There’s also this.” Keith laid the emblem engraving side up. Led by impulse, Pidge held the skin-warm disc in her hands, its geometric angles glinting. Yet as she examined it, the metal drew cool in seconds, as though its warmth were imaginary.

                “I’ve never seen anything like it. Similar to Galran heraldry— another loose end perhaps?” Allura’s voice at once affixed them to the present as she spoke again. “One we need not unravel at the moment.”

                Even Keith nodded.

                “Alright then.” Allura held her datapad aloft and the screen displayed a camera view, an elegant unknowable script in stark contrast to the markings on the box. A translation. She tapped a few buttons and the machine clicked to life.

                The duo screens remained dark but a slow feedback whispered into the air. It seemed endless, like the heartbeat of the universe, the pulse of space warbled an eldritch lullaby. Her arms broke out in goosebumps.

                “I cannot change the coordinates,” Allura said, unbowed by the weird atmosphere, the wavelengths of pulsars now an undulating line onscreen.

                The other screen deadened, a receiving source? _What is that, it can’t be..._ For a moment Pidge heard something long forgotten. An echo of space, a radio wave, reflection of a childish desire—her father’s voice—the disconnect one and the same as Allura ended the call.

           

                Jaw clenched, Pidge held tighter to Keith’s waist in hopes of leeching heat, the cool evening air whipping through her frame and the motorcycle rattling beneath her legs, her farmhouse bone bright in the dark. Her father’s voice rang in her head as she adjusted her backpack. Shaken from the short ride, she covered a sneeze with her elbow and masked her thanks in a lazy punch.

                “We were stupid, but we weren’t alone.” Keith knocked two knuckles against the helmet as she took it off and handed it back. He tucked his helmet in the crook of his arm, idling in the driveway. Asking him what he heard as they gathered around Allura’s dining table was a passing whim so instead she nodded. Maybe Keith was right—she just needed sleep.

                _We have enough to concern ourselves._

                 A slice of light parted between the living room curtains, flowing shut as she trudged up the walk in her black leggings. Pidge swung open the door, bracing for confrontation.

                “Where have you been?” Her mom stood in the hall, mouth pressed thin as Pidge toed off her filthy ballet flats, tucking the pair in hand.

                “I was just at the library.” The lie came easy now.

                Beyond the door, Keith’s muffled engine roared down the street.

                “You had Shiro’s brother pick you up? Honey, you know all you need to do is call me. I would have gotten you.” A counterpoint to the chafing sincerity, Pidge dug blunt nails into her palm as her mother continued. “He could have come inside. There’s still some lemonade in the fridge.”

                “Didn’t realize we were in the 50’s.”

                “Watch your tone.” The flicker of hurt on her mother’s face rendered her chiding unbearable. “What’s gotten into you lately?”

                The regret staining the back of Pidge’s throat like an aftertaste, curdled and nasty, crawled from her throat, acidic and biting. She stomped up the steps two at a time, creaking wood in her wake.

               

                Matt’s room held its own set of glow-in-the-dark stars, their phosphorescence another bygone memory, but if Pidge squinted they became more than paltry aberrations of texture on the ceiling. It was a full moon. Cold and stark. She’d taken a shower, the water hot enough to leave her pink and dizzy from steam. One of Matt’s posters clung to the wall by a single desperate point. She reached up and helped it along, the old paper ripping at the last moment, a strand of white.

                That’s how her mother found her, tucked into slippers and hair a crinkled wave over her back—staring into the infinite space of plastic stars. Called by her name, soft and loving, Pidge’s island crumbled into the shore. There in the half-dark, her voice fragile and brittle from grit, she apologized.

                 Her mother settled next to her on a vacant bed. “It’s been really quiet in the house lately. You can invite them over.” She added on after a hesitant acknowledgement, “How are things at school? Brenner and Michelle, you haven’t invited them over in… in a long time, did something happen?”

                “No they’re fine, school’s fine.” Her confusion cleared at the mention of their names, hasty in assuring of all things her friends hadn’t deserted her, even if she deserved it.

                “The next time Matt comes home, he can drive here and you can keep the car. He’s got great public transportation in the city. You’re young and I don’t want you forget to have fun.”

                “It’s fine Mom. I couldn’t do that. I miss him.” She choked out a half-truth. “Everything’s really changing. I don’t know how to deal.” Coursing down her face, hot tears found their home in the fabric of her mismatched pajamas. “School’s not fine.”

                Her mom held her close, words of comfort and fingers running over her hair. Half wrapped up, Pidge muffled an I-love-you into her hug, into that liminal space of Before.

                “How about we do something tomorrow, just you and me. A girl’s day.” Her mom shushed her. “Don’t start, I’m not at all suggesting manicures, just whatever you’d like—I want us to talk more.”

                Pidge relented.

                “Sure.” And for one moment she thought she could mean it.

 

                <So worst case scenario, we get arrested, good to know.> Hunk sniped. <That lowers the stakes significantly.>

                <Speak for yourself.>

                <Sarcasm, Keith. Please.>

                Between Shiro’s season pass and a fake ID allowing her a children’s discount—much to her chagrin—the Paladins meandered inside the planetarium, idling down the time until closing. The communicator sat heavy against Pidge’s back. Five minutes. She hid in a bathroom stall, all according to plan as security guards made their rounds. She fiddled with the alarm and overrode the camera feeds before Shiro opened the emergency exit for Lance to descend as an inky shadow. Silence ill-suited him but, unable to press him for truth or levity, she followed in unison.

                Shiro led the way, observatory beyond a set of double doors. “It’s no Chilean telescope but it’s more powerful than my own.”

                Pidge descended into the control room below. A computer with multiple monitors awaited their instructions at its center, Hunk an easy partner while Keith loitered as a sentry. After minutes at the terminal with their combined efforts, the roof opened up, both Shiro and Allura working above to establish a connection to a narrow pinprick of stars in Altea’s direction.

                This time when the communicator clicked staccato through the holophone, Allura broadcasted a simple message. Pidge cleared a monitor, the view at an angle of the trio. From her perspective, Allura’s mouth set in a determined line, Lance perched nearby and Shiro stood by her side. He increased the holophone’s volume so Allura’s message filtered clear but not overloud in the control room. On Allura’s second iteration, her voice cracked, face shifting completely at the burst of static.

                “—and you cheat, ‘m saying there’s nothing to wager— eh, incoming messages?” An unfamiliar voice lilted, disembodied, a single wavering line on a monitor across galaxies. “Reveal yourself, Galra! You hide in the shadows no longer as you dare to request aid—what more of your ilk could permiss of us now? Hang it all, I’ll grant you no quarter!”

                Lance and Shiro exchanged glances while Allura remained resolute, her hope steeling past the voice’s one-sided tirade. “You speak to no Galra, _aristh.”_

                “A false word—your platitudes ken no merit ‘til I see your face.” He muttered. “More than fair exchange all things considered.”

                “ _Aristh_.” The single word was fraught with such command from Princess Allura that it straightened Pidge’s spine from her position underground. Awash in the blue glow of the monitor, even Hunk drew himself in. “Your caution is commendable. But it is not of the Altean way to spurn the weary. I will honor your request. In return honor ours when all comes to light.”

                Its overlay covering the machine, the holophone was held aloft by Shiro while Allura input commands with Lance a supervising presence, but the monitor flat lined despite their efforts. Seconds extended to minutes. Allura assuaged the voice but each moment extended unchanged. Pidge held her breath in hope, Hunk beside her much the same, each so engrossed that the whisper of the door sliding shut narrowly snatched their attention.

                Pidge wrenched the door open first, hissing Keith’s name up the steps. _Trust me_ , he mouthed as he turned the disc, glinting even in the dim light. And there was nothing to be done save let him depart. She sat back in the console chair, confronting Hunk’s nervous ramble with facts. Either it will work or it won’t. Hunk focused on the monitor with her, watching as Allura took the disc. It wasn’t until the object met machine that the screen awoke fuzzy imagery.

                The door shut with a soft snick behind Keith and Pidge centered another monitor on the feed from the Galra machine. A smeared tableau greyed down and warped at the edges appeared, a pair of alien faces stabilized at its center. Their marks were different from Allura but undoubtedly Altean, twin scythes on the scowled one’s face, the other sporting an asymmetrical jagged birthmark.

                _We did it._ Hunk mirrored her, exchanging the smallest smile at a victory.

                Scowl spoke again, his obstinance as apparent as the colour bleeding into the frame. “State your business—my gods…you are Altean! How’d you escape the blockade?” He cast a sidelong glance at his silent partner, who gestured in a measured rhythm with their hands. “No, she’s not—” His eyes darted from the screen to his partner’s signing, and his expression shifted from dawning realization to horror to settle on something troubled yet no less suspicious. “This cannot be. What fashion of trickery do you play at? Our crown rests on Empress Hera’s head.”

                Wait, who was Hera? Curiosity and inference surmised an ugly and unfair picture, the pieces slotting into place in the heavy silence.

                Allura seemed rooted to the floor but when Shiro spoke her title she revived her bearings, calming the Alteans as she asserted her birthright as truth.

                “But Empress Hera said you were dead! She told us you were dead,” He sputtered at a loss. “May King Alfor walk forevermore hand-in-hand with the ancients—you couldn’t possibly—I am looking!” The last he addressed to his partner and something calmed in him. “It is as you say.” His tone mellowed to one of bashful acceptance. “How shall we be of service?”

                “In my absence, Altea stands fast against the Galra, yet this self-made blockade must fall.” Allura  braved past their twin dissenting objections. “We will not cower while the people of Earth suffer. We can aid them, we must. Or it will be as the Olkari once again.”

                Spanned wide, his jerking hands floundered at a standstill—protests emanating from his side—time ushering an admittance he uttered as if bled from a fresh wound.

                “Zarkon’s fleet controls the Outer Circle, culling our Alliance, hindering our communications. Altea could scarcely deploy a proper wormhole to your location before the Galra destroyed Earth.” He spoke like a question wended between his words, unable to truly ask it, unanswered yet glancing down a shaded path. A familiar notion. “Prithee, in a decaphoeb bygone, the Galra have scattered all urgency—they do not tarry.”

                “What hesitation? The Galra do not and yet they have in this place. There will be no recovery, no surmounting an attack once they procure Earth. ” Princess Allura spoke evenly despite yielding to solid conviction. “You must find a way.”

                “I? No. It is not my power as an _aristh_.” Resolve painted his features as his jaw worked. “I’ll not have another dobosh pass wherein we lose another battle. I will fetch someone worthy of your request. By your leave, Princess.” He stood. His partner’s hand shot out to encircle his wrist so he halted mid-step. “Ah, by their leave then.”

                “Ellan.” They let go, their hand movements punctuated by a deep frown.

                “I can leave my post for a few doboshes.” Ellan made a wounded noise in response as their voice peeled out honey-smooth.

                “You’ll tell everyone on your way there, secret-spiller.”

                Alone in frame, a forlorn expression settled over his face. “ _Aristh_ I may be, yet the only functioning comms tower heeds my will. Naxir is mistaken. I can be trusted.”

                _Of course_ , Allura’s breezy reply washed over him, such pithy praise returning a tilt to his chin and they spoke at length of Altea in that formal speech. It’s not lost on Pidge—a distinct necessity dictated this tenuous bond last, that whoever entered the viewfinder next might hold the key to Earth’s future.

                Hunk scrubbed a hand over his face, a bone-deep exhale interrupting her silent prayer. “What if they send Zarkon back here?”

                “On purpose? Why would they do that?” Keith said, lurching from where he’d propped his hip against the desk, bravado propelling him forward. “We meet him again and I’ll kill him.”

                “No.” Ice trickled down Pidge’s spine, and Hunk’s jogging leg nearly outpaced the rush of blood in her ears, the pieces slotting into place. “Because Allura is here. Because we’re a threat they can’t quite reach. Altea is an island, we shouldn’t have— no more hosts to fight, no worry of Allura reclaiming the throne, no one would know if Naxir betrays us.”

                Ever to action, a falcon hunched over the monitor, her racing thoughts catching up to Keith’s conclusion. <We’re pawns, this was a mistake.>

                <Keith, if Altea sent Zarkon against us… his fleet would still have them surrounded.> Sotto voce, Lance shocked Pidge from spiraling, logic another delayed reaction perhaps she wasn’t meant to hear at all.

                <Zarkon will come in his own time.> Allura’s fatigued voice said, devoid of its fresh warmth. <They have not done anything unexpected. It is right they move on, appoint a princess regent, fight in any way they can. Not all, but I know: There is good in my people.> She repeated herself. <Not all, but enough.>

               

                Across galaxies, across celestial bodies and planets Pidge had never seen and never would, she felt more than heard the door to the nondescript room open. Shiro and Allura had stepped away, conversing silently, but Lance perched sentinel before the screen. The three of them huddled near the monitor, Keith human again and hovering near the back of her chair. Without preamble, Ellan stood at attention before slipping to the side beside Naxir. A face appeared, bright eyes unexpectedly close and for the briefest moment Pidge thought herself seen as well.

                “What a splendid and wondrous creature!”

                <I like this guy.> Lance near preened in profile, alighting on Shiro’s shoulder as the face turned aside.

                “But surely this magnificence does not warrant such secrecy.” He stroked the over-manicured curls of his mustache, the edges of his contrasting markings crinkled along with his squint. “Though, how did you breach the jammer, an intelligence greater than our sharpest minds could muster?”

                “No, they possess Galra—” With a single curt gesture, Ellan quieted.

                “Princess Allura.” His voice caught, head bowed, the screen filling with red hair at the motion.

                “Coran.” Somehow the name as Allura spoke enwrapped Pidge’s head with affection, the prism of her convoluted feelings split into a myriad of colors as it departed. “It is good to see you well.”

                “I knew you were alive.” His eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Thank the ancients.” Coran receded from the screen. “Who is this round-eared fellow?”

                 “A human,” Allura continued, her voice softer. “He was with King Alfor when he fell. To Zarkon.”

                “I should have…” A sharp intake of breath, Coran bowed in another way and a great age lit within his downcast eyes then. “I was not with him.”

                “Nor I.” Allura said, wistful, voice distant with fond memory. “He was always so stubborn.”

                “That he is, my dear.” Coran cleared his throat, her words a balm to their shared grief. “Alfor, King Alfor, parts with no ideal.”

                “He was a warrior until the last.” Shiro affirmed. “He gave us a fighting chance.”

                “Of course. I will always honor his sacrifice.” Coran straightened his posture, a gentlemanly handkerchief bestowing all evidence of his unchecked tears in its folds. “Anything you’ve to ask is yours.”

                “We cannot allow Earth to fall. Billions reside here, and he is but one.” Allura spoke impassioned, for every person she voiced a deep devotion to their life. “The Galra operate under a shadow front to socially induct humans to their ranks, a methodical and unprecedented invasion.”

                “Princess, you needn’t convince me. Zarkon has pinned us like a quiznaking pack of yelmores on the hunt, but I will get to you. The brunt of any opposition Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe can muster from Hera will be at your command—starting with you two joining me.”

                Coran addressed the pair, Ellan’s signing halted—Naxir’s hand lifted from its place on Ellan’s shoulder to playfully pinch his ear as if an extension of their exultations—his singular dissent pitched louder.

                “Come now, consider this a promotion. You’ll have a shot at becoming a paladin.”

                Ellan stopped rubbing his ear, clear intrigue scrawled on his face now at Coran’s twofold promise.

                “With the proper tools, it would be possible,” Allura said.

                “Only the best and brightest.” Coran gave a satisfactory nod. “Under all haste and secrecy.”

                “I’d expect nothing less.” A pleased smile curled at the corner of Allura’s mouth.

                <Something’s strange, can you guys see it? A flicker?>

                Lance shifted on Shiro’s shoulder, catching Coran’s attention. “Humans are quite the diverse species.”

                “It’s a long story,” Shiro trailed off, hypervigilance rendering his mouth parted, frozen. And Pidge’s conditioning  by recent oddities readied her limbs for a fight, Hunk and Keith in similar wariness beside her.

                <Hide!>

                At Lance’s warning, Shiro and Allura dropped, their backs pressed against the console.

                Coran’s reply was interrupted by a high frequency trill, the screen warping his image. The present ripped sideways, adrenaline flooding Pidge’s system. Static hazed over the screens into her fingertips, numbing them tendril by tendril with every static-buzzed word.                                                                              

                “This is an unauthorized message. Key 0481, this is Commander Holt.” _No_. Pidge couldn’t breathe. “Conform to protocol breach, reveal yourself.”

                That voice she knew.

                An empty pine box. The fog of a specific misery returned to her now. An itchy dress, well-worn tissues with even more well-meaning relatives in a blur. But his face, two years older, the lines of it, more grey in his beard—it’s him.

                Her father was Visser One.

                _Impossible._ How her father fit her recollections, her wishing to see him again. She stared, a strange sound filling the air as he demanded compliance. But the image unsettled, lacking all nuance of the way he looked at her, at anyone.

                _Papa_.

                “No. We never found him. It was an accident, they said papa couldn’t be recovered—this isn’t real.” She chanced a glance to the other screen. From here, Shiro gauged a shaded frown on the tip of grasping memory—familiarity—and then there was no further denial, embossed in her mind a home always too empty now. “Two years—I can’t look at the walls anymore, he can’t be here! Papa died. I’m losing it.” She swallowed around the bile crawling up her throat. _Unfair._ Awareness waned from her, distant change in the atmosphere as though it were a cold hand to the nape. No, deeper still. As cruel as her churning thoughts. “Galra, the galra—they took him, too. Sendak answers to him, he’s my enemy!”

                “Pidge… we can help him, somehow.”

                A weight settled against her shoulder, yet she shrugged off whatever Keith intended, cutting into another voice’s attempt at consoling. Hunk. But neither understood, and knowing nothing, she left their efforts another bitter taste accompanying the stale one residing in her every shaky breath.

                Pressure built behind her eyelids but clouding the precious apparition from her vision rendered itself conclusive. She wouldn’t cry.

                Pidge shivered with Keith a near presence, but it was Hunk’s arm that enwrapped her at an awkward angle. And she fell into it, the two of them radiating empathy and something dangerous, an anger on her behalf she could’ve been touched by, if she felt anything at all.

                 “If they can track us, they can trace us.” Hunk intoned, muffled by disinterest and the feeling she watched someone else, shaking and small, in a cheap office chair. “We need to go.”

                A perfect derivative simulacrum—her father’s face appeared cold, almost emotionless. She can’t move. But Keith urged her to her feet and she blinked, the momentary darkness surfacing a flash of yellow eyes. Her chest restricted, another flash of concern. The room tilted again and unconsciousness claimed her, solid yet soft arms breaking her descent.

 

                There for her, even when she did not deserve it.

 

                Exhausted, Pidge lay wide awake in her bedroom. Carried out of the planetarium on Hunk’s back hours ago, lifetimes ago, now dawn slipped past her blackout curtains, the soft glow a thin line where wall met fabric. Lance, Hunk, Keith, Shiro and Allura had huddled around her, their concern palpable. Hunk’s persistent questions all heart yet no more graceless than Keith’s awkward attempts at comfort. Lance had clogged her mind, overwhelming her with something other than petrified static and Shiro… Shiro had known her father, but whatever he felt he’d pushed aside, adamant upon small promises. Allura held herself at a distance, but a gentled verdigris suffused the moment and Pidge’s last shred of maturity understood in some way the bane of information she’d endured in a day. Now her father posed himself their greatest opposition.

                _Visser One._ Behind his broadcast a metal backdrop, trappings of Galra make—a place on Earth? A ship? Could he spin forever outside her orbit? The headache behind her eyes pulsed at the thought but tears refused to fall—the night had depleted her stores. It didn’t feel like home as she drifted down the hall. But she summoned the reserves of her bravery. And yes, each photo her absentee by-never-a-choice father hurt anew, but something else simmered beneath the heartache, warmed and illuminated. _Expand your horizons,_ he’d say. Or _never stop your curiosity, always seek the truth_. Like sunlight through a magnifying glass concentrated enough to set to tinder, to burn kindling, to light a bonfire, rubbed between her thumb and pointer finger, she held her Star of David pendant, skin-warm as it should be and maintained, her worries cast upward. Startled by the unshaded windows as she made her way to the kitchen, each soft-tinged parallelogram striped over the wooden floors, couch and faintly stained area rug, she passed through the threshold.

                “You’re up early.”

                Pidge jolted. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, cup of tea generating no steam by her hand, long gone cold. She hummed her reply, the rabbit of her heartbeat lead her to not trusting her voice.

                “Just hungry.” When she found it, Pidge ventured on unsafe territory. “You didn’t sleep well.” Not a question.

                “I’ve told you about midnight snacking…” But the sternness leached from her mother’s voice, the clink of the cup as she set it down again. Without turning around, Pidge visualized as fact the mild distaste on her mother’s features at the tea. A drained sigh. “Bad dreams. For some reason you were in my thoughts all evening.”

                  _Dad’s alive._ So much explanation lay in those two words. But the revelation won’t bring any happiness. He wouldn’t have wanted that, late or not. Instead, the oaken mass of her tongue cobbled by rote. “Well, I’m fine.”

                “I worry, sweetheart. It’s my job, I’m your mother.”

                _Nothing to worry over, Mom, just our family is more broken and unbroken than I ever believed possible._

                If her father was truly Visser One, what kept him from having Pidge and her mother taken? A measure of protectiveness endured, a fragment she could only hypothesize. Somehow she felt brave, emboldened and buoyed by tentative truth. She set the kettle on, water sloshing metallic in its innards and took up her mother’s cup, lined as a pair with her _“world’s okayest sister”_ mug. But the two missing places at the table surfaced as a keen ache, the density of their presence driving her suggestion.

                They took their drinks onto the porch as the sun rose in full, birds warbling outside. Pidge allowed herself to be tucked against the chill by a fleece blanket, staving off a shiver from the inside out with every sip.

                Her mother pointed towards the barn. “Hey, it’s Mr. Red Tail.”  Curving in an arc near the barn, the hawk alighted on its eaves. A quiet question. “Haven’t seen a mouse brave enough in ages thanks to him. Aren’t we lucky?”

                Yeah. She was. Because they understood.

                Conversation drifted to the mundane, the normal, the bizarre. It’s solace. And despite the impossibility, her frayed smile would eventually mend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, this is the end of the first arc, I had a lot of fun setting up the story so far! I will be going back and making small edits where needed but nothing major. If you're curious, [ this ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3WiKLHgrIF5feNPE7RzRCH) playlist is a soundtrack of sorts for this part. Also, if you wanna say hi, I can be found on [ Tumblr ](http://maisoncavalier.tumblr.com/tagged/tpc%20writes) and [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/maisoncavalier). As always, thanks for reading and all feedback, kudos, etc. are appreciated!


	13. The Summit: Infiltration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter warning for mild language, PTSD symptoms, and non-explicit panic attacks and motor vehicle peril (begins at: People flock to you, Shirogane—”). If there is something I've forgotten to warn for please kindly let me know. Stay safe first babies~

_More and more I think of Haxus’ words, the scar in the mirror another daily reminder—nothing a swipe of concealer couldn’t cover—victory or death. As if each day we come away with our lives the win comes at great sacrifice from my team. My friends._

_Their trials, their strength— it’s a question of my own resilience. Because me?_

_I’m falling apart._

                Each student dropping into Shiro’s office hours—some curious, looking for a quick conversation on the material, others wide-eyed, nervous about their grades and floundering for insight—bartered his wandering thoughts. A mundane distraction. But now with a break in between his last sign-up, Shiro sank back against his chair. Dr. Holt was alive. Though out of sight thanks to Lance’s warning, the voice had been oddly familiar, so unlike Matt with its lack of earthy quality and flat timbre. Still he’d linked the two together until latent memory completed what logic failed.

                And Pidge’s shock confirmed what Shiro second-guessed, a conclusion he mistrusted as he fought with his own mind. Commonplace, these days.

                A miracle or a nightmare increased Pidge’s determination in the face of tragedy tenfold. And Keith only enabled her every mission. Already whatever pride surged when measured against the gains Keith made in teamwork soured in their execution, Shiro’s rolling stomach along for the ride.

                Or maybe that was his fourth cup of coffee. He set it aside, a dull thud against the solid desk. A sharp rap of knuckles against the doorframe interrupted his marking down a no-show student. He glanced over, barreling train of his thoughts screeching to a halt, greeting dying on his lips.

                “Aren’t you a long way from the bursar’s office, Miss Iverson?” Frowning, he sightlessly closed the program, clearing his throat. “This is unexpected.”

                “Oh, I let myself wander, every now and again. I told you to call me Missy.” Her voice carried a sternness, something off, a mismatch between her words and body language.

                “Pardon me for the faux pas, we’re not off the clock.” Shiro said, steeling himself to play this game again as though she hadn’t shot his brother in lieu of him. Missy sat across from the desk, a bridge between them that he held no intention of crossing. _I could call you plenty of things—monster, for one._ “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

                “Well, I...” Missy began, lips painted a deep colour, and everything about her that seemed pretty to him once emerged repugnant for what lay behind her perfectly arched brows. “Old habits, I suppose—I should say goodbye first.” She hemmed, correcting herself at his obvious confusion. “Gave my notice a few days ago.”

                “You’re kidding.” The reveal only deepened his frown. Divorcing numbers and order, all of her hesitation in speaking, an act constructed by Sendak, rendered Missy a stranger. “Why would—you love your job.”

                “Yeah, I do.” She admitted, so regretful it seemed genuine. “I just wanted you to, I don’t know…I thought perhaps if you knew where the Coalition is taking me…”  Ever calculated, she trailed off.

                “Wow.” Shiro’s fingers tapped a rhythm against his pant leg, engulfed by the feeling of lagging behind. “Uh, so you’re working there full-time?”

                “Is that so strange? I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have a fallback plan.”

                _Don’t I know it._ “Congrats,” Shiro said, a bitter half striking out what might have been an _I’m happy for you_ in another life. Another circumstance. He’d rather die. And wasn’t that the problem between them, between everyone? Paranoia shifted his focus to an untrusting angle, the constant pressure of keeping his Paladins and Princess safe fatiguing every interaction. His face betrayed him.

                “That isn’t all actually. I’m attending a summit.” Missy leant forward, her stance solid and braced for a firearm’s recoil, and he repressed the urge to do the same. “It’s for community leaders, but it might do you some good.”

                “I’m no leader.”

                “Right, Shirogane, and you didn’t go full space cadet on me.” Acerbic and a little mean, somehow her snort came across less indelicate than it should have as she explained the out-of-town conference, her speeches and potential networking, exceedingly prideful while dropping the posh lodgings and catered breaks. “Perhaps you don’t see what I see—I have a few VIP tickets left, that kind of weekend might relax you a bit. I know The Coalition isn’t your thing but it’s a shame you aren’t interested.”

                _Can’t say that I am._ “I’ll think about it.” A student hovered in the door, his last scheduled appointment. Shiro couldn’t remember their name in the moment, but they always brought notes so he curtly gestured to the round table. “You’re late, have a seat.”

                As Missy got up to leave, she hummed a pleasant tone. “Let me know soon.”

                While his student freed the first of many papers onto the table, his focus waned. Missy was a victim of a fate he’d suffered and wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy after all.

                More terrifying still was the narrow acknowledgement that with her perfume lingering in his shared office, he would have said yes had the invite not come from a Galra host.

 

 

                Despite napping, Shiro shuffled through his living room groggy and disoriented. Once in perfect clarity, his dreams always filtered by like shrapnel.

                On his suede couch, he flicked through movies, more pictures than summaries guiding his selection, head propped under a worn out pillow. Literal and figurative canines had stress chewed the tassels off in the dead of night, the inhuman teeth marks Shiro left behind yet unnoticed by Keith.  Strange pantomimes of the day resurfaced as cobbled together memory—Adrian in fatigues, leant in a doorway, blocking his exit and all sightlines. Haxus had shuffled through his mind, and the peace that came in dreams shattered for setting those snapshots to rights. The bright blue of a pilot light, peanut butter not on his own lips but the same vanilla protein shake he always drank. An emotional score swelled as the opening credits played. Go back.

                Once, after a dream so vivid, heedless of all intension, “ _how are you”_  burned on his tongue. A mystery settled by his own thoughts _— still in med school_ and _fine without him_. What they had was good, until it wasn’t. What weighted on his chest until he couldn’t breathe, the hurt of mistakes eased with time’s passage and a self-inflicted timetable when he had to repeat sewing shut a reopened wound. Nothing else he could afford.

                And no amount of false memories could change that.

                The bland walls pressing in on him, and movie deemed a dud, Shiro grabbed his keys.

 

               

                His own beige walls weren’t much different from the not quite colour of Allura’s dome, but somehow they required no emergency paint run. As he stared at swatches, colour palette strips and booklets, each dissuaded him from the handful of paint chips he clutched tight. _Make a decision_. Six samples later and halfway to his car, he made another with the slim holophone tucked in his palm.

 

 

                Canvas bags dangling from his forearm, Shiro opened his front door to the television pouring sepia light across the living room and the smell of pizza wafting in the air, the two shadowed culprits intoning a greeting.

                <I would have said hello earlier but I didn’t want to freak you out.> Lance whispered from the couch where he was taking up an entire cushion.

                “Noted.” Answering Lance’s nosiness while he dropped off the mini paint tubs in his bedroom, Shiro swept that detail for later—blindsided hellos could’ve sunk him after a day like today. It was considerate. Far more than Keith, who held the pizza box damn near hostage at his side.

                “Because then the movie would have a different title.” Clearly responding to something Lance had said, Keith talked around a mouthful of pizza. “Are you going to watch or talk the entire time?”

                <I can do both.> Lance shot back. <And so far, nothing makes any sense.>

                “It would if you paid attention!”

                Intent on snatching up a spare napkin and a slice while they argued about nothing, Shiro flicked on a light. But Keith swallowed down words, exchanged for an annoyed look at Shiro crossing his face as he rolled off the couch and into the kitchen, not before slapping the opposing light switch, bathing the room in darkness again. Weird.

                The seal of the fridge hissed open and with Lance as witness, Shiro pried up a slice. He bit down. His jaw froze.

                <Yeah.>

                Through force of will, Shiro powered through a bite defying the laws of physics with its sheer punch of anchovy. Keith’s usual toddlers palate diverged in pizza toppings. Oddly, he hadn’t ordered any onion. It was still a travesty in its own right, Shiro told him as much when Keith paused on his way back to loafing, taking a swig of one of Shiro’s beers.

                “I thought you’d be over at Alluras.” Keith said, deadpan and completely unaware company saved him from getting suplexed over the couch.

                “Speaking of, we’re heading to the Lab. Get ready.” Shiro picked off a stray olive. “But you know pizza is just a conveyor for meat, right?”

                <Yes.> Lance said. <And pineapple.>     

                “No.”

 

 

                After Shiro explained Missy’s offer, Hunk raised a brow. “Wow, and I thought I was bait.”

                <Fancy as it sounds, I don’t like it.> Lance worried from his perch on the door of an empty horse stall.

                “Sendak wanted forces to counter my—I mean, Visser One,” Pidge added, though her fingers halted for a split second on the keyboard. “Sendak might spearhead anything, plenty of people, plenty of targets. We can’t just let him go, Lance.” Face lit with the glow of her laptop, her eyes narrowed at its screen.

                <I’m not saying let him anything, but how are we sneaking in? No animals allowed except service dogs and considering how Dude turned out…> Lance let them fill in the blanks but Keith spoke up in the uneasy silence.

                “Look, maybe destroying the quintessence wasn’t enough—whatever Sendak plans, we have to stop it.”

                “Agreed.” Allura said. “We will have to monitor The Coalition’s activity. Their resources are thin, but the Galra must be planning something.”

                “We’re doing this.” Shiro felt more himself, aimed true to their objective, no matter how unusually considering Allura’s gaze as he spoke. “Missy said she would network, inducting people into hosts doesn’t seem too farfetched.”

                <So quality not quantity…> Lance chirruped aloud. <Better pour over the attendees, Pidgerino.>

                Pidge huffed at the name. “What do you think I’m doing? This thing is national, it could be anyone.”

                Ignoring the mild squabble half in their heads, Hunk ceased frowning in Shiro’s general direction. “So, you’ll be our inside man, Shiro.”

                That night, late enough to toe the borderline of personal and professional by the time he returned home, Shiro dialed Missy’s number, its last entry ages ago.

 

 

                Travel uneventful, the fog off the coast thinned in the heart of the city. When he reached his destination, Shiro reluctantly handed off his keys to the valet before pushing through the grand doors, where he found Missy in the hotel lobby. At her elbow was someone presumably part of her entourage who left after polite introductions.

                “Glad you decided to join us.” Missy beamed, brushing aside his protests with a wave of her hand. “Okay, join me. You decided to make a move Shirogane, and do something for you.” She’d already checked in, slipping his room card into his palm. The Coalition emblem pinned to a scarf round her neck flashed under crystal chandeliers as she stepped back.

                “Did I really?” Too pointed, he settled on teasing. “Because I could have dressed better.”

                Missy’s mouth shifted wry, the mirror-shined floor reflecting their doppelgangers—his crinkled outfit incongruent with her soft sweater and heels as they walked. “Business class would have been kinder. You insisted on driving.” She blinked at his duffel and garment bag, a foreign mettle turned her crisp wit impatient. “Where are the bellboys?”

                Missy never spoke like that before. “It’s nothing, I’ve got this.” The edges of a headache cradled against Shiro’s senses like a longtime guest.

                “What’s the point of—right, you’re fine,” she decided, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear as the elevator doors slid shut. “It’s going to be a nice weekend.”

                During the walk down the wide hallway, each door marked by a golden plaque, Missy listed an itinerary of amenities at his disposal until he reached room 17. The silent lock disengaged. He nudged the double doors open.

                Whoa.

                The bed was massive, a California King bolstered by a tufted duvet cover and an ornate headboard. The curtains lining the windows were drawn open, city buildings cutting into the sky, tonally grey on grey in contrast to the glinting office windows reflecting what light peeked through the cloud cover. His feet sank into the plush carpet. Flat-screen television, upholstered striped chairs. Shiro set his luggage down on the matching ottoman while Missy hovered near the door. It seemed to never end, more apartment than hotel room— through an angled sliver another room, a dining table, a kitchen. He wouldn’t be using that. A French door led to a terrace, and he walked onto the balcony.

                “No way, Missy. This is unbelievable.” Shiro looked down onto the half-circle courtyard, the elegant front of the hotel all raised topography filigreed from this angle. “You said relaxing, not all of this…”

                “Is it not relaxing?” Her shoes left at the door, Missy joined him several inches shorter on the balcony. “I’ve one just like it. I’m down the hall.”

                His jaw clenched. _Great_. He turned away. A sparse row of pigeons rested on a wire, their relatives loitered around the fountain, its concentric waves lapping against marble shore. The moment stretched a second overlong, too late for a witty remark.

                “Okay, mine might be a bit nicer.” Missy amended quietly and Shiro despite himself, snickered. The boast had caught him off-guard. “But if you need me, I’m room 21.”

                “Hard to imagine anything better. So you’ve enough of me gawking like a tourist—what will you be doing?”

                “Is that interest in The Coalition I hear?”  

                “Hardly. But you did bring me to the Taj Mahal for two days.” Shiro hedged his bet. “What kind of guest would I be to ignore my host?”

_Oh, the irony._

                “Three days, Shirogane.” Missy corrected, curling a hand against the railing before stepping back inside and Shiro followed. “I’ll be at the convention center all day. Speaking of, I should get going.”

                “Hey, maybe we could do lunch—you did say it was catered,” Shiro smiled sheepishly as Missy turned, questioning, one red bottomed shoe in hand. “Or I could come with you?”

                “Meet me downstairs in five,” Missy said, her back and tone ramrod straight. “If you’re late, a shuttle will arrive for the summit in ten. Find someone with a Coalition pin. They’ll take care of you.”

                “Right.” Shiro said, something raw and rebellious building against his ribcage. “I could do that.”

 

 

                Minutes later, a private car awaited them in the courtyard. With the door held open by a blond chauffeur in a dark shirt and skinny purple tie, Missy slid into the backseat, Shiro folding in after her. The door shut with a solid thud. Following the chauffeur’s movements as he circled the hood into the driver’s seat, Shiro drilled a hole in the back of his head.

                “Sir?” The chauffeur’s morose face stared back in the rearview mirror. “Are you alright?”

                “Yeah, it’s just—you looked like someone familiar.” He frowned, covered it with an apologetic smile. “But I was mistaken.”

                “Sure he does—he has a common face.” Pulling a dossier and tablet from her bag, Missy snapped, “Drive. Or I’ll be late.”

                “Yes, ma’am.”

                They merged into traffic, Missy pointing out important time slots for the first day. Shiro listened with half an ear, having memorized the schedule days ago. Still, he nodded along, interjected a few questions, all the while a nagging itch of recognition for their driver plagued him. But as usual the memory remained a scattered deck of cards. Where has he seen this guy before? No place normal, like on campus. The Pool? Shiro no longer cared. He was a host, that much was clear.

                “Here.” Missy offered him a folded pamphlet, Coalition pin on top of it. They were at an intersection. “You represent us today.”

                “W-why me? Come on, I don’t know anything about what you guys do.”

                “What’s there to know? This is what The Coalition does. We benefit from helping others. Surely you know the power of that now.” Voice just as silken, Missy craned her neck and her eyes tore from his, leaning closer to peer over the scenery passing by the windshield. “Good, we’re almost there, won’t be long now.” Her smile dipped into a pleased curl. Shiro feigned brief interest in where her gaze had been—a flash of greenspace and flagpoles ahead—while she studied him. He had changed into a deep green blazer normally reserved for lectures and bland khakis, non-prescription glasses. Those had been Keith’s suggestion. _If it worked for Clark Kent._ “Let me tell you. People flock to you, Shirogane—”

                The car swerved. Their seatbelts locked, jerking them in place. A blaring horn, the oncoming driver narrowly missed contact with a screech of wheels.

                “Hell are you doing?! Eyes on the road!” Missy shouted.

                “I lost control,” the chauffer whispered, “of the car.” He apologized profusely which Missy refused to accept since truly, he’d lost control of his Husk, his stutter half drowned in Shiro’s thudding heartbeat.

                Genuinely shaken, Shiro numbly accepted her offer that branded him for The Coalition.

 

 

                Separated by her busy schedule, Missy hadn’t been entirely off the mark. Shiro tried his best to field questions in such a way to discourage whatever interest those might have in The Coalition. Like hell would he play the part that well. But he couldn’t blame the curious.

                The Coalition dotted their trademark colour throughout a third of the North Wing, nowhere could anyone turn without a glimpse of violet—the money they’d generated seemed surreal. Their only competition was a clash of green marking an environmentalist outreach group. A list of donator’s signage displayed at the entrance—honored tiers no doubt already in the Galra’s pocket—scattered themselves throughout the center. Shiro opened the guide, map unneeded but a prop to stabilize his focus. Another active section spanned part of the underground “bunker” connecting the North and South Wings. While not in full, he was only one person, and it was a lot of ground to cover.

                Almost innocently he wandered, playing up excuses as he slipped from networking mixer to keynote following his own intuition. But nothing could outshine Missy herself. For this, he stayed in the main gallery, determined to shadow her afterwards, even if he had to dig that pin from the garbage.

                Shiro lurked in a foldout chair as another faceless body, no doubt a merited prize, a quota before her arrival. The stage dimmed. With wire-framed glasses a blinding glare from the singular spotlight, the summit director said a few words.   

                “Now I’m pleased to introduce to you, one of our leading contributors and whose exponential growth should be a shining beacon of the potential within us all—The Coalition’s Missy Iverson!”

                Applause flooded the room as Missy approached the podium, exchanging smiles with the director as he relinquished the microphone and heartily clapped before exiting stage left. She waited for the applause to die down, and in the void of its swell the audience energy seemed rapacious in the moment before she spoke.

                “Please, Director, you honor me. However, as flagship branch manager of The Coalition, I am but an extension of each outreach program—it’s truly the people we serve who allow for such growth.” Nodding along to the smattering of applause, her slick chignon glimmered under the light,  its austere impression giving way to something else entirely. Missy held her own appeal as she was, but this was another kind of charisma. She spoke in her element, a crusader with a veneer of trustworthy cohesion firmly in place as she closed her speech. “Don’t forget, I have a workshop today. Please join us for more. I’ve time for a brief Q&A, are there any takers?”  

                Hands shot up and Shiro filed out in the trickling flow of people heading for the next event. Now he had to get backstage.

 

 

                Security blocked his path. “Look, I’m with the Coalition,” Shiro said.

                The guy grunted, crossing his arms in intimidation. “Ain’t everyone these days, right? Half of ‘em won’t let me do my job.” He smiled, nothing about it friendly. “But you will.”

                Damn.

                Shiro backed off, the guard still giving him the glare of a lifetime as Missy’s voice, amplified by the sound system but unintelligible, echoed in the hall. Think fast. Movement caught his eye, blond hair, a purple tie.

                “Buddy, I know we just met, but one Coalition member to—” Shiro meant to elaborate, expand upon an idea that repulsed him in full, but purple tie wore a blazer now. In the seconds he approached the telltale bulk of a gun holster sat hidden on his hip. “H-hey.” _Please don’t freak out again._ “Security won’t let me pass.”

                “Shiro… Shirogane?”  Shiro swore purple tie’s eyes flickered like a slot machine but his hands were steady as Shiro nodded slow, like dealing with a cornered animal. “Where’s your pin?”

                Patting at his lapel, mock shock must have painted his features well enough because both the guard and tie leaned forward. “It must have fallen off. Tell this gentleman here I’m with Miss Iverson. She won’t be happy.”

                “R-right, he is.” At that, his spine straightened from its semi-permanent slouch. “He’s fine.”

                Shiro crammed the question of the hour under his tongue—how the hell did they get past the metal detector?—as the security guard huffed but let them by.

                Missy’s filtered speech warped the air around them, but Shiro watched her profile. She answered a final question, her thanks given to the audience one last time, but as she turned and caught his eye, a divot in her forehead appeared, there and gone, smoothed over by false surprise.

                “What are you doing back here?” Missy asked once she was fully behind the velvet curtain. There it was again, a flicker in expression bent not-quite-right.

                “Ready for that lunch break you…uh, are you alright?” Shiro reached out a tentative hand. “I saw your speech, you were great out there.”

                “Great enough for you to join us?” Missy drew herself in, all at once insular. Almost familiar. “Of course I was.”

                “For lunch…I think you’re pushing yourself too hard.” Shiro puffed a breath from one side of his mouth as if mulling it over. “I need to recharge, and I’m ready for that donator’s lunch you promised.”

                “Well, you didn’t don—what am I saying, of course for lunch.” Missy said, her smile gentle as she laid a hand against his shoulder. “Maybe you should go back to the hotel, you’re so tense.”

                The difference in tone alone pushed Shiro’s feet forward on auto-pilot. Some fragment of her struggled, and in that coexisted hope.

 

 

                From Missy’s right side, Shiro catalogued every face as a who’s who of investors, community leaders, and guests, their round table of six a shell game of potential targets. Steak and fries ran a youth outreach program, Salmon Caesar an altruistic socialite. The summit director himself still plodded over his appetizer, too busy heaping sycophantic praise at every comment to properly eat. The vice-president of the environmentalist group sat across from Missy, apropos as they clashed almost immediately.

                “Really, what’s your carbon footprint? Fliers and advertisements leave a mark.”

                “I trust in my team to use recycled materials,” Missy said, veneer sealed over her entire bearing.

                “So.” A simpering quirk settled over the VP’s mouth. “You don’t know.”

                “The Coalition would scarcely be what it is without her. Someone would know by fifteen hundred or heads will roll.” Shiro said, Missy’s smile forever as false as his own. “Truly, she downplays herself.”

                “Tremendous growth in a year, I say.” The director sucked a bit of food from his teeth. “This one’s a real spitfire…Wait, who are you again?”

                _Someone here to save your rude and ungrateful asses._ “Nobody, really.”

                “Now there’s some real modesty.” Missy cut in. “This is Takashi Shirogane, he—”

                “I thought Roger was supposed to be here?”

                Her narrowed glare sharpened at the interruption from the director. _Jot that one down._

                “He’s decided to take a break from our work. While he was a vital instrument and taught me many lessons, he found it time to move on.”

                “Ah, I see. Best to know when it’s time to bring in young fresh talent.”

                “I love my job at the university, Miss Iverson.” Shiro lowered his voice. “Like you did.”

                “It’s been decided.” But her cutthroat tone pled humanity for an instant, tempered by false pleasantry before she addressed the table. “Yes, we shall see what the future holds. Now, let’s discuss how we can work together on decreasing our unfortunate footprint.”

               

 

                _Empowering Your Community: How Applying The Coalition Business Model Strategizes Growth._ Cameras recorded but Shiro settled in at a distance beyond them for another smoke and mirrors workshop, this one conducted by Missy herself. She commanded the room, personable but accessible, teaching yet reserved, speaking one-on-one. A balancing act on the fly.

                <Hey Shiro, I know you can’t respond but I hope you can hear me. You’d be amazed what people will discuss on their smoke breaks. This place is crawling with Galra.> Lance wasn’t wrong. <Anyway, we’ve got what we need, waiting on you to check in later.>

                Repeating the same message a few times over, its strength waned in volume as Lance flew overhead and Shiro willed himself to silence in the convention center. Too risky to morph within these walls, the holophone’s grace tempted, but in truth he’d not allow that relief in this place.

 

 

                By the time Shiro stumbled into the mediocre security of his hotel room, he’d seen enough. Of The Coalition, of double-speak, of Missy, of calculating odds. If the Donator’s luncheon was any indication, the Galra intended on taking all four esteemed seats. Everything seemed a guess—to what end Shiro found himself faltering—an approximating shot in the dark. But it didn’t matter. Any victory from the Galra his Paladins diverted would remain their baseline. They had to play interference until real help intervened. The alternative… his shoulders ached from tension. Maybe he would indulge in one luxury, one moment for himself.

                After a routine check of the perimeter—not an out-of-place pillow mint nor planted wiretap to be found, of course—his paranoia tamped down to a manageable enough size to take a shower. No use in carrying the bad energy to his team, so he sloughed it off in steam and hot water. There were enough buttons and shower heads and little soaps that after stepping from the fogged up stall he felt lighter. And like his Charger after a full car detail.

                Shiro sat back on a tufted desk chair in a variation of his morphing outfit, watching the dial tone as an undulating waveform passed back and forth onscreen. Waiting. There. Allura appeared, a visceral comfort lay in her standard pink suit but with the cheap headboard obscured by her half-down hair behind her back, she embodied an air of relaxation more apparent that Shiro drank in, his own bleached by seconds.

                “Prince Shiro. We are not all together now.” Her lifted smile diminished, taking in his clothing. “How unexpected, I take to mean you encountered trouble?”

                “It’s just comfortable.” Funny how a second skin became armor. “No trouble here, Princess.”

                She hummed and an unsure question tripped under Shiro’s tongue. He’s too far from her. Too far to glean from their mental link, that connection, what he cannot understand fully.

                “No matter—we’ve secured our new morphs from the zoo.” Allura’s eyes cast their sparkle at something out of frame a brief moment as the bed dipped, Pidge bouncing in and out of frame with a little wave.

                “I am gonna kick so much ass!” Pidge crowed, unabashed as Lance’s cry of _language_ compressed into a robotic flat voice filtered through the holophone with the headboard clattering against the wall. “I didn’t say anything though.”

                Allura brought the phone closer to muffle Pidge’s petulant complaints. “Hunk and Keith are procuring food. Keith was worried about you.” But from her expression filling the screen, Keith wasn’t alone in that. “I am relieved.”

                “Allura, I’m fine.” His ears warmed. Lance and Pidge were in the room and his mind conjured all the things he shouldn’t do—it had to be some sort of royal infraction to speak so plainly in return. He can’t lie to her. “I made it through.”

                “Of course you did, I had the utmost confidence.” With sunlight particular to Allura’s words, Shiro needed nothing more to fill the soulless elegance around him.

                In the end, a set of talons curled against the headboard.

                “Whoa, you’re living in the lap of luxury, you have to give me a tour later.” Lance slipped into view, profile craned to a far off point. “They’re on their way up.”

                Pidge’s whoop broke over the room again and Shiro couldn’t help but smile. “What are you having?”

                Allura’s face lit up. “My first Earth food, American Chinese take-away. Hunk assured my meal would be meat-free!” Her voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me truly, should I have brought a packet of food goo?”

                “Too late.” Shiro pretended to consider yet hours of falsehoods broke that character easily for sincerity. “I’m sure you’ll love it.”

                “I hope so,” Allura said, a scraping sound ushered a sunset-tinged parallelogram of light into frame, her attentions elsewhere.

                And he wants.

                Amid rustling plastic bags and five voices blending into one pleasant chatter, the display spun and then he was looking at all of them—Pidge gripping a carton and sauce packets, Hunk pointing out the various components of Allura’s dish, and Keith’s already greasy fingers holding a half-empty eggroll bag tighter as Lance perched on his shoulder, but the motion of attempting to shoo him off slid Keith’s gaze to his own.

                “Takashi?” Keith grinned, its bend lopsided. “When did you become a mob boss?”

                “The second I got here.” As much as the joke settled him, he faced reality head-on. “Missy’s been a little too gracious.”

                Keith snorted—whatever shitty little brother low-bar comment he’d predictably clear—eyebrow raised in the perfect approximation of skepticism. “I’m sure she has.”

                There it was.

                Hunk coughed, chopsticks in his fist as he beat his chest, forcing down his food. “Ugh, for real, it’s so much better than our motel.”

                “How’s the Wi-Fi? Ours bites.” Pidge tugged a carton nearly as big as her head over the bedspread, tucking in a shovelful of what looked like beef fried rice and shrugging off how Hunk said she didn’t need internet for this anyway. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

                A part of everything and apart, the last time Shiro had stayed in a hotel with his family, Florida had been humid and miserable, Keith had been a kid yet they were both loud and happy. A distant, good memory.

                It’s not the same.  

                But this counted too.

                In its own way.

                At their combined request, Shiro ended up ordering room service. He could eat. The Paladins were all benign small talk until the waiter left his food,  and Shiro soon found his plate empty. In the chaotic derailing manner of their usual conversations they returned to the mission, but a contentment from food and company lit in Shiro’s chest, his next words forced and reluctant.

                “The Coalition made themselves an institution at this summit.” Afterimages of magenta adorned his memory in a shuttered blink. _Focus up_. “Something about it feels off, like a show of strength they shouldn’t have.”

                “Weakening the Galra in our strike at their pool must have forced them to an auxiliary source,” Allura said. “A backup generator or outsourced quintessence, perhaps.”

                Pidge set down her demolished carton, face scrunched in consideration as a ripple of uncertainty spread throughout the room in shuffling murmurs. “We didn’t do enough.”

                “It has to be enough,” Keith insisted, sapped of its usual force.

                “We’re too far away to pop by the pool anyway.” Hunk cracked his neck, aiming for levity. “Yay, vacation.”

                “They’re a presence _here_ and we can’t stress over that now,” Shiro said. “Discouragements will only set us back.” Already the day seemed weeks past, an age between Shiro’s near collision of the morning and the fog rolling over everyone’s shoulders at sunset. “This second-hand quintessence—could it cause erratic behavior?” Frowning, he elaborated further, occasional questions over the holophone peppering his retelling until Lance spoke up.

                “So the Galra are a little loose on the whole freewill chokehold thing, explains why they were so chatty when alone. They want quality. People that can lead The Coalition, give them power easier, the usual bad guy spiel. ” Lance said. “Only so much I can scout but they’re only concentrating on a handful of people—Parker Campbell, Cynthia Donovan, Amelia Bradford-Morgan, and William Griffin, the conference director. If they don’t have eyes on those guys now, they will later.”

                A list of his lunchtime tablemates. _That’s our point-man._ “Missy was pretty cozy with them.”

                “Checking over the schedule for tomorrow, Sendak has another panel in the morning. But—” Pidge trailed off, listening to a voice Shiro couldn’t hear.

                “Yeah, Takashi…how do you know this?” Keith’s folded arms telegraphed his hardline refusal of any reply Shiro gave. “We think they might—”

                Princess Allura cut him off. “We accounted for this fascination Sendak has with Prince Shiro. Pidge and Hunk have prepared a tracker and Lance will deliver it to you.” Her gaze held him. “Be careful.”

                Hunk rummaged through a backpack before presenting something that looked like an ivory lentil. “Don’t worry, its insurance.”

                “We have your back,” Pidge said.

                “I know.” Shiro tapped out an aimless rhythm against his leg. He sighed. “Thanks, guys.”

 

 

                The draft ensured Shiro rode the line between awareness and oblivion when Lance swooped on nearly silent wings through the terrace doors. He cracked an eye open to Lance settling on top of the television cabinet.

                <One special delivery by carrier pigeon, all you have to do is sign.> Lance said, looking around the room while idly preening. <Can I trade places with you? This place blows my motel nightstand out of the water.>

 _Gladly_.

                “How does this work?” All business by force of habit, Shiro rolled the tracker, which still looked like an ivory lentil in person, around his palm.

                <You’re supposed to put it in your ear.> Lance clarified the tech phased virtually invisible—though with a prideful note that it lay plain to his superior vision. <As for function, its untraceable by anything the Galra have access to but, really, it’s all chewing gum and twine to me. Hunk and Pidge did their smarty pants thing and some Altean magic junk made it happen.>

                Suppressing a distressed shiver at the prospect of placing anything into his ear, Shiro met Lance’s stare. “Allura did this?”

                <Yeah.> Surprisingly, Lance turned away first, shifted from side-to-side on the stand. <So… about the tour?>

                “Right, can’t open doors with those talons.”

                <Nope.>

                Lance commented on each space, muted under the nagging feeling welled up behind Shiro’s ribcage until he expelled it in a breath. “How is everyone, really?”

                The question bounced off the smooth bathroom tiles, interrupting Lance—quiet by comparison in the confines of his mind—of how the bathroom was bigger than Hunk’s dorm.

                <Um. They’re all fine.> Lance hedged at the distinct turn. <Allura is happy to be out of the dome, Hunk’s happy he got out of the bear cage, Pidge went to the petting zoo—she’s the real trooper here, using her weekend for alien stuff hundreds of miles away from home…>

                “Okay, I get it.” He can’t ask yet. “What about Keith?”

                <Psh, he’s been ready to march over to the center all day, wishing for new powers, a guns blazing type of hero. And that I do understand.> Lance hesitated like he admitted something grave, stirring of feathers as his thoughts left him in silence.

                Shiro swallowed around a lump of affection. “And you?”

                <Me? Ha, I, no—there’s nothing to report here.> Panic bizarrely laced his laughter. <I’m on the sidelines as usual.>

                “You were my lifeline to normal today.”

                Bird-of-prey on a marble countertop, Lance stared at his own reflection. <That’s…sad.>

                Still not seeing the truth.

                “Could always be worse.” Shiro snorted before he could stop himself, unsure if he could find the right words to get through to him that he’s much more. “You’re part of the team.”

                <Right. I should get back.> On his exit, Lance gave a parting _heads up_ so Shiro doesn’t jump at the firm knock against the door but the dull cadence of Lance’s voice stifled answering it.

                Like ripping off a bandage Shiro tucked the tracker into his ear, whatever misgivings assuaged by opening the door to Missy in what his lizard brain could only classify as a freakum dress.

                “Hey Shirogane.” Missy said, eyes reflecting the light of the hallway, warm and golden. “Thought I’d drop this off.” Produced from nowhere, she held the Coalition pin pinched between two fingers. “Just so you’re not unprepared for tomorrow.”

                “Can’t have that.” As he took the pin, Shiro’s tone betrayed none of his wariness yet, when he looked up, Missy examined him with extreme scrutiny. “What?”

                “Your face…” She bit her lip and the moment’s pause left Shiro at a loss.

_Oh._

                Clarity spurred him to intercept whatever her conclusions.

                “Yeah, accidents happen, don’t want to talk about it. Can, uh, you blame me, Missy?” With a humorless exhale as he brushed a thumb over the textured skin, the action arrested her intent stare. “You should’ve seen _your_ face.”

                “I didn’t realize it was a problem. I only just noticed, it’s not ruining you.” She blinked, quick to recover and stilling her hands, voice tapering to a candle’s flame. “I was going to grab a drink, let me make it up to you?”

                “You don’t have to do anything.” Shiro said, looking down at his black outfit. “Besides, I’m not really dressed for it…”

                Hair free of its confines, the curls at Missy’s shoulder bobbed with a casual shrug. “Be a shame to do so by my lonesome.”

                The earnestness of his bare face paralleled her words, a bygone memory reaching out from the depths of his tired mind. “I’ll just meet you downstairs.”

                “Main lobby then, and I won’t ask about the scar at all.” A quirk of her mouth and she walked away, an afterimage in purple as Shiro shut the door.

                Lance really had come in clutch. What an unexpected attack.

 

 

                Warm wood tones contrasted pale purple silk. Missy had only pulled him from the lobby into the hotel restaurant, and Shiro was almost grateful for the few couples scattered about the white draped tables, each decorated with fanned napkins and a single tabletop flower. The late hour’s mercy only brooked so far, a near empty space left his back open to the room on the upholstered barstools. Begging sacrifice, the soft sheen of Missy’s dress diffused a kind of tension, a palpable caution beneath his own clothing while they sat at the hotel bar. Its wood reflected himself, a blurred mime patting down the invisible wrinkles of his button-down as neat whiskey settled warm beneath the fabric. Adrift, for the first time, in how to proceed. An eddying shift under choppy waters, a light touch to his arm.  

                “Shiro, this isn’t so bad, right? Far less neon, I have to admit.” _Like old times_ remained unspoken and Missy stirred the olive skewer in her martini before taking the glass in hand, gesturing at him with it. “But we should catch-up, how have you been, outside of ghosting community service?” Less accusing and more teasing, she gave a non-apologetic shrug when he arched a brow at her in response. “Look, I don’t know what your aversion to The Coalition is about but we’re helping people.”

                “Sure.” Prickling down his spine, a bold numbing static loosened Shiro’s tongue. “But the member thing, isn’t it a little _secret society_?”

                Missy waved off his question, leaning back as if putting him in better focus. “No… it’s motivation for people so they feel progression and achievement. Organization. Wait.” And here her mouth surrendered to a knowing grin. “You still let your brother live with you.” Unaware of his mistake and denial falling onto a wary chasm, Missy read his expression for something else. She laughed. “You could do a lot of good. Haven’t you for him?”

                “You really believe that?”

                “Why wouldn’t I—you’re capable of anything Shirogane,” Missy assured. “It’s like its own little family here.”

                His pulse quickened further, tired of stumbling behind the trail of this conversation. “You had everything handled at lunch today.”

                “Not well enough.” Missy huffed, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. “Campbell was a real piece of work.”

                “Right, what an ass.”

                “You said it, not me.” She agreed despite her words.

                “I bet he’s a vegan.”

                “No wonder he was so cranky.” Her girlish laugh startled acknowledgement of the budding hope in his chest. “We’ll get Campbell on board, he’ll come around. It’s not as if we don’t want to help the planet too.”

                Something nestled behind his teeth and licking them did nothing in alleviating that sour taste. “The planet, the planet, you want him to come around so you can save this pale blue dot,” Shiro teased, nudging aside the truth for blissful ignorance, exchanging his apprehension for levity. “Leave something for us mere mortals to accomplish, Superwoman.”

                Missy made a face.

                “Joan of Arc?” Perhaps it was better to stop while he was ahead.

                When she spoke next, her words were oddly solemn despite the soft expression on her face. “I’ll never stop fighting for what I believe.”

_Neither will I._

Missy sipped at her martini, the silent pause ran its course and Shiro mastered an even tone. “Then you’ll keep fighting, even for the baby seals.”

                Her laugh didn’t come again.

                It wasn’t a question but Missy mulled over it as if it were one, sliding the last olive from its toothpick like a saber. “I may be an army brat but I’m also a goddamned shark.”

                Shiro swallowed, his cohesive thoughts sundered by the knife-edge of Missy’s expression. It’s a joke, falling flat on withered ashes, the thrum stilling to an echo. Too ruthless, too serious. She had changed, and in spite of her words, there’s no fight, no verve left in her. Haxus had tried to convince him that he was a soldier. What lies had Sendak told her? Was she stuck in some cherished memory as he once was, a loop of peace while his body submerged under galra control? Replaced by a symbiotic relationship, Missy’s face flickering emotions, changing and smoothing over upsets, the Missy as he once knew her was gone. Life before the war was an unreachable notion. He cannot go back. With the rush of burning alcohol down his throat, Shiro relished that point of focus instead.

                “It’s getting really late, I’m sure you need rest. For uh…” _Taking over the world._ “Tomorrow.” Praying she took no notice of the blood in the water, Shiro shook off Missy’s questioning expression.

                “That’s my line, you know. You were supposed to _relax_ this weekend.” She waved down the bartender, turning to him again as she waited. “Leaving so soon?”

                Shiro winced, the stress cramp not entirely acting. “Yeah, I have to bow out, feeling a bit sick or something.”

                “Stay.” She blinked, softening the command. “Stay in the hotel tomorrow. It’s fine.”

                Bidding her goodnight, Shiro returned to his room, and though all his perimeter checks remained unbroken, he fell into an uneasy lull.

 

 

                Parker Campbell was clearly of highest priority to the Galra of their targets, but finding the man in the convention center proved difficult. But once Shiro reintroduced himself with a firm handshake, the die was cast. Shiro slipped into the nearest restroom and emerged a perfect copy of Parker, though wearing an ill-fitting blazer from a consignment shop and dumping off the fake glasses in a trashcan. With the tracker still snug in his ear, Shiro drifted further into a magenta sea, distant call nudging at his senses.

                “Mr. Campbell!” Shiro turned a moment too late, schooling his face into neutrality as the blond man from before—part-time chauffeur, part-time private security—hailed him down. “Ms. Iverson would like a moment of your time.”

                Shiro tried to protest but to no avail, falling into step on a path to the elevator, its gears shifting with a lurch, glowing arrow pointing down.

                <We got Amelia out,> Lance said. <Good thing she’s so susceptible to kids.>

_Way to go, Pidge._

                Shiro’s stomach sank as the elevator descended to the underground level despite leaning on Parker’s holier-than-thou attitude for ignoring the host beside him. They moved in silence through the atrium towards a slender hallway. Shiro willed his mouth to speech as they passed the first door.

                “Did Miss Iverson say what she wanted?” Hands behind his back, Shiro leveraged his meager height difference over the host.

                Unaffected, he offered no response.

                “Seems a bit weird not to send a memo.” Shiro ventured again. “Unprofessional.”

                That landed. “She has her ways.”

                Whatever satisfaction in an answer dwindled as the upcoming double doors opened to a ballroom. Ugly industrial carpet yielded to polished floors but the walls didn’t match the floor plan, contracted by a flimsy boundary in an expanse of space where a small gathering of people took up its center around a setup of Coalition branded paraphernalia. Griffin, Donovan. Now, Campbell. Shiro took a grounding breath, affixing his expression unaffected. In the chilled recycled air, all of the pieces were in place. A deep purple carpet led to stiletto heels at the head of the room.

                “Campbell, how nice of you to finally join us.” Missy said, her polite smile suitably pleasant and fake. She spared a passing glance to Shiro’s right. “Take your leave.” Focusing on her audience, Missy addressed them again as the door shut. “Since our breaks aligned today, I thought it a show of good faith to meet up again, give you all an inside look at how we really operate.”

                Missy gestured to a whiteboard of notes—it wasn’t her handwriting—papers and charts pinned to its surface with magnets. It started smoothly enough, yet Donovan stood up from her seat. Missy’s eyes hardened, the expression swapped for another false pleasantry.

                “I believe in your work, but I’m not here for this.” Donovan made to move towards the exit. However, a Coalition pinned security guard blocked her path. “Excuse me?!”

                “Sit.” Missy commanded, the edge of her words not quite buffed smooth. “This won’t take long and you’ll thank me later.”

                “You—” Indignant, Donovan scoffed. “You can’t keep me here!” 

                “Hm, this is getting high energy—why don’t we calm down?” Griffin’s placating tone eased the tension by a hair. “Hear her out.”

                “Listen to him, Cynthia.” Missy slipped out of her heels, tone ebullient and mocking. “It’ll be just like hot yoga.”

                Her face pinched at the confrontation. “How do you know I—”

                Everyone swiveled to the exit at the commotion drifting through the door until it reached full volume.

                Shiro’s fingertips numbed.

                “Let me go! How could you people possibly think I care what that woman—” Parker, the real Parker, went slack-jawed, his loud voice smothered by shock into a raging hiss at taking in his clone. “Wh-what, what’s the meaning of this?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiro really is going through a lot but don't worry, this is a two-part chapter! (As of posting, I have progressed a good amount towards its completion.)  
> I totally based the convention on a real place, bonus points if you can guess where. Fun note, Keith ordered his pizza without onions because pet birds find all forms of onion highly toxic, and while Lance is certainly not a pet, better safe than sorry! Also Hunk will celebrate his birthday when it comes around again extra hard after surviving a stint in that bear cage, bet.  
> As always, thanks for reading!! Comments and kudos keep me motivated and are appreciated~


	14. The Summit: Extraction

                <Campbell is here with me!>  Shiro said, a fluorescent orange tingeing every word. <Guys, I need back-up now!>

                In a liminal space where tendrils of starlight met the pressure in his chest to ease it, a moment later a deep pull like fresh water filled his lungs.

                <Sit tight, we’re coming,> Lance said. <Pidge still has to override another security camera.>

                <That may not be an option.>

                “Is this a prank?” Griffin broke the silence of seconds.

                “It’s not funny,” Donovan said as Parker gaped at Shiro while he did the same, knotting dread building into bile he swallowed around, reality rendering them both speechless.

                Missy recovered her composure, her humanity lost to an alien bearing. “Status report.”

                “I couldn’t find Shirogane, he checked out early.” The host replied while he frog-marched Campbell further into the room as Donovan retreated, giving a wide berth to them  and edging nearer to Shiro.

                He found his voice.

                “Smart.” He couldn’t help but sarcastically mutter under his breath as Missy cursed much louder. “Can we get back to the facts: why are there two of me?”

                “Exactly.” Campbell scanned him from head-to-toe, the beads of perspiration on their faces mirrored for different reasons. “Who cares about that, I demand answers!”

                “Our time table has moved up.” Missy spoke as if she were genuinely forlorn while she made a mystifying gesture. “You’ll get your answers, one at a time. You’re up first.” Friendly enough, she cocked her head to the side, leading Griffin into one of the makeshift rooms. “Time to deal with the non-essentials. It won’t take long,” she promised, cheery wink sending goosebumps over his skin.

                Shiro’s breath was punched from his lungs and Donovan shrieked as Taujeer lined the room, Olkari scattered at their flanks. Shiro clutched his head in shock, barely able to order his thoughts. And when he did, coherency seemed the least of his worries. Had he reached his Paladins? _I don’t know, I don’t know._ He babbled along with the rest of them, overwhelmed and frozen with his pulse rushing in his ears.

                What could he do? He’s just a person, and a middle-aged one at that. No weapons, nothing. His original was pinned to the ground, held still as he tried in vain to struggle, yelling himself hoarse.

                So. He took in his surroundings. Three security guard hosts, two of whom had Campbell in hand, face pressed to the floor, as he began to cry. The way out was shut, another human host barricaded the door along with three Olkari. Twenty hostiles in total. Licking his lips, he steadied his breath. “Donovan.” Her wide eyes met his, glazed and unseeing. “What’s your inventory? What do you have?” In an absurd comparison, her open-shut mouth resembled a goldfish as he whispered. “In your bag?”

                She looked down, her shaking head and hands fumbling with the clasp. “My wallet.” With the maw of the purse open, she stuttered. “Tissues, cell, fountain pen.” He plucked the last from her, uncapping it to find a steel tip.

                “They attack, aim here.” He tapped the spot on his neck just once. _Jugular_. “On my mark, you go belly down on the floor.”

                Handing the pen back, her hands continued their tremor but something of her mettle strengthened his own.

                “1…2…” Shiro snatched the empty chair and flung it at the nearest taujeer. A distorted whoop shuddered from them as an Olkari lunged forward, cleaving the metal in two with a clatter. He swore.

                “Hey, I don’t know what you’re attempting to pull.” The guard drew his gun, form sloppy and untrained. “But cool it.”

                “You’re not going to hurt me.” With Campbell’s derisive grin, Shiro stepped closer. “I’m too important.”

                “Don’t try my patience.” He fired, the warning shot sparking off a ceiling duct but Shiro was intent on challenging him regardless.

                Lock clicking into place, the sound  molded the guard like a mannequin at attention when Missy returned.

                Griffin does not follow.

                “Ah, I can never tell which is which. Aren’t you all so… spirited.” She heaved a sigh, picking her way across the floor, handgun swung lightly by her side in time to her languid pace. Every barefoot step imbued malice. Shiro’s heartbeat thudded in his ears as she tapped the silencer against her hip. “I realized something while I was back there. It doesn’t matter which one of you I take. Grab them.”

                They’re smothered by sweaty hands locking both arms in place behind their backs.

                “I don’t care.” With one shoe on, the other balanced in her empty palm, judge and jury, Missy stood before Campbell, commanding his captors hoist him to both knees. “Look at me when I speak to you.”

                A single spin of black-and-red, the shoe gripped like a hammer, she impaled its point into Campbell’s shoulder. Some taujeer canted at ease, frenziedly drawn to bloodshed. “Paladin or not, I’ll get the same satisfaction out of making you be _quiet_.”

                Faraway, outside of himself, a swell of urgency beyond own nudged against his mind.

                “Take him back. You’ll live.” With a jerk of Missy’s chin, the guards yanked Campbell from the ground. Missy made a shushing sound to their screaming and pleading, slipping her shoes back on, tone equally casual. “You’ll be fine, promise.”

                Shiro surged against the hold on him, drawing her notice.

                And Missy smiled at him, cruel and cold and skewed beyond all notion. “But it’s roulette. Only one of you needs—”

                Everything blurred in Shiro’s periphery, the walls bulged out to their limits, warped by shattering perception. Staring down the barrel of a SIG Sauer M18, the world exploded in a mass of grey.

                <Let’s move, people!> Pidge yelled, one ivory tusk plowing past an unfortunate Taujeer.

                Chaos descended.

                Not inclined to ignore a literal elephant in the room, Missy spun to this new force.

                His Paladins.

                Doors behind Shiro slammed open, their reverberation joined a deafening trumpet ringing in his ears. A bear’s roar, throaty and full. Freedom. No longer pinioned by gunpoint, Shiro wrested from a grip loosened by surprise. Those reaching hands nabbed air and ceased chase with a scream, their clutched leg staunching blood in the aftermath of a wolf.

                <I got you!> Keith’s palpable rage and relief clung to every word. Shiro mirrored the sentiment. Already Keith was an indiscreet blur to his next target.

                What he wouldn’t give for the tiger’s strength.

                Across the room, Galra forces concentrated on Pidge—impossible to miss—stomping through the venue with a jaguar, flashes of Allura’s dappled coat weaving through the throng. Split by the enemy, they couldn’t reconvene. An Olkari sailed through the air from Pidge’s trunk, its leather craggy with red rivulets. The Olkari landed before Shiro, attempting to sit, but Hunk’s massive bear paw pushed back. They didn’t get up.

                <Clear a path, get to Donovan and Campbell!>His orders galvanized his momentum and on his wavelength, Hunk lumbered through the line of Taujeer like a battering ram.

                Grunts and screams all filtered past Shiro like white noise. Nothing broke through the fog. Though Allura and Pidge were still pinned by the galra, with Keith at his heels and Hunk a grizzly bear’s body length ahead, shaggy fur yielded to Donovan.

                Donovan’s attackers struggled, a red-speckled blue line scrawled across one’s cheek, as they dragged her towards the room Missy had taken the director earlier.

                Keith darted forward, attacking with a speed rivaling Hunk. All teeth and claws. Shiro doesn’t grab Donovan—hadn’t she gotten enough of that? And Donovan parted from them with a narrow opening, terror written on her face.

                “It’s okay.” Shiro said, voice stranger to his ears in its detached calm to her clear panic. “They’re with me.”

                “Right, of course.” Something not quite hysterical tinged the laughter tumbling past her lips. “Kidnapping protocol never prepped me for this.”

                Even though Hunk and Keith made a formidable pair, a many-legged surge of taujeer were coming their way. Already the taujeer’s stinking maws promised barely in-check hunger, a desire for flesh. Defenseless, he and Donovan retreated for the exit while Hunk rose to a towering height and Keith physically blocked the taujeers’ impending advance.

                Keith lunged and Hunk swung a meaty paw, toppling the first wave. With each counterattack, their onslaught endured, yet not without cost.

                They had to get out of here. Together.

                <Shiro, Allura—guys, we’ve got cops incoming!> Lance said, his volume louder than expected from his position over the convention center. <They entered on the ground level.> And clearer, stronger as he kept talking. <Pidge missed a silent alarm!>

                <I would never!> Pidge argued, scandalized and punctuated by lowering her head to sideswipe a patch of Olkari with red and blue bloodstained tusks.

                Half the team shared a mental groan, stunted by Allura’s outcry.

                <Stop her!>

                Alarm more action than emotion moved Shiro—supplied image in his mind of Missy reaching her gun, once cast aside in the havoc, perspective denying any intervened hope.  

                <No!>

                Missy snapped aloud over the turmoil, brutal and unflinching.

                Every Galra soldier halted. The real Parker shuddered at Missy’s side, an Olkari propping him up.

                And the world went still.

                But Shiro shifted a half-step before Missy leveled the gun to Parker’s temple and uttered a tsk. “You move, I’ll kill him—that goes for all of you!”

                Missy glared and Pidge froze, trunk raised high and curled into something like a fist.

                There’s nothing they can do. Shiro’s shoulders sagged.

                “Sentiment.” Missy’s face contorted with its sneer. “Careful of the vitals, I’m sure one of them will transform before they die.”

                With that, Sendak disappeared behind the door with their prize in tow.

                Pidge and Allura were encircled by Olkari and the sole taujeer left standing herded them together. An odd band. Speech mingled with English and alien tongues, the Olkari sized them up, volunteering for who should take the first shot. The lot of them were matted fur and sodden in viscera. Despite faring the same if not worse than Hunk, who was favoring a limb, Keith bristled.

                <We have to go after them, stop—>

                <No. We need to retreat.> Shiro admitted. <Our first priority is to Donovan now.>                          

                No matter how difficult truth confronted him as the Olkari offered the blaster to the taujeer—what could they do? Wicked faces savored a wicked choice.

                Haloed by a spray of feathers—wings—the taujeer squealed, uncontrollable tremors angled their gunpoint.                 Lance let go. Above the din, above Shiro pressing his advantage by snagging the blaster, was the splat of something damp.

                <I’m fine, you—we have to go!> Lance yelled.

                <Working on it!> Shiro fired back—unmitigated violence of the hour leeching into his tone—scraping Donovan from the floor where she had, well, followed his instructions.

                Covering her, they scrambled for the door, the wounded galra hosts not harboring much resistance. Dim awareness of Sendak’s voice—stolen vocal cords strained with vexation—renewed its concern as Lance flapped overhead to their thumping footfalls.

                <Someone topside must have warned them.> Lance said. <The Galra are running away.>

                Keith swore. <They got what they wanted.>

                <Not all of it.> Allura said, voice steeled.

                _Ding_. Up ahead, the atrium gleamed in its normalcy, a wall of elevator doors.

                “This is where we part ways,” Shiro said, addressing Donovan. “It’s for the best you lay low. Tell no one anything of what happened.”

                Still trembling, Donovan seemed eager to forget, but her wet eyes conveyed a wealth of sincerity. “Whoever you are really, thank you.”

                As they fled onto the stairwell, Shiro returned to himself, though eventually awry memory painted the elevator doors opening with a police officer demanding _someone call animal control_ with a wry grin.

                Bustling traffic roared on the freeway, their engine noise unimpeded by the thin tree line separating the gas station in the middle of nowhere. Shiro twirled the keyring on his finger. Afternoon sun glinted off the smattering of car windshields both transient and stationary. Gravel crunched under Shiro’s shoes.

                Breathe in, breathe out.

                Discordant to past chaos, distant from methodical routine, Shiro replaced the Charger’s gas cap on auto-pilot. Events of the morning shoved into mental storage, it was almost a relief when Hunk’s rental car arrived, coming to a rolling stop at the nearby pump.

                All but tumbling from the backseat, Pidge scampered through the entrance, door held open by a scraggly bearded person. Shared brief eye contact, his own suspicious, the others polite.

                He blinked. Hunk’s rental and his own car were the only two left on the lot, the man already gone.

                “Shiro?” Allura’s soft voice brought him to the present. Her expression remained in its concerned bend though he assured he was fine.

                Just to prove a point, Shiro ambled towards the rental where Keith who was still buckled into the backseat, startling as he tapped on the glass. The door opened a crack. “Don’t you need to stretch your legs?”

                After grinding at his eyes with his palms, Keith made a rude gesture in response.

                Amused, Shiro sidestepped the door’s swing. At its slam, he shared a mutual nod with Hunk. An hour of confined contact could work wonders for understanding.

                Miles lay behind their journey yet traces of the aftermath meant to follow Shiro home. As they pulled into neighboring parking spaces, a hawk’s shadow drifted to a nearby lamppost.

                <Do you guys know how hard it is to follow moving cars?> Stabilized atop his perch, Lance complained. <Always the cavalry.>

                “Only heard you the entire time, never let anyone forget it.” Keith glared, neck craned to the lamppost above. “Seemed easy to follow us into danger.”

                <You know what they say: arrive late, leave early.> Lance said, a benign attempt at diffusion.  

                “Quit joking. I swear, you really—” Keith forged against his struggles. “No one asked you to swoop in. You weren’t supposed to be—you could’ve—it’s always a one-way conversation with you.”

                “What would anyone know about that?” Shiro said flatly, though, true to form, Keith ignored him.

                <I’m not floating around on a thermal all day.> Lance countered. <Saved your ass anyway.>

                “Whatever.” Keith hid his hurt in venom. “Don’t fly into a plane turbine.”

                Ringtone breaking up the uncomfortable air, Hunk dove for his cell.

                “Good news, I’m the terrible group partner!” Hunk said sarcastically, jabbing at the screen and looking up as Pidge returned. “Snack run without us, rude.”

                She chomped noisily on a candy, the bag in her damp hands, aims at the backseat thwarted as Hunk imitated a buzzer sound. “Nope, no way. I want my deposit back.”

                After raiding the shelves they sat on the curb and Hunk sighed. “Sweet victory feast this is not.”

                It wasn’t a victory either. Not really.

 

 

                Within the walls of the townhouse, Shiro’s doubts all piled up—what could he have done differently, better? Coming home had felt like a faraway dream. But he was here now. And still restless. In the darkness and congested in his bedroom, the two squares of new paint morphed to another failure.

                Some futile attempt at recovery.

                Gas station coffee had been a mistake, caffeine gathered his worries into motion. Maybe actual food would do him some good.

                Rummaging through the freezer, cold air numbed his hands as he looked for something quick. Frozen dinners, breakfast burritos, a bulging box of lean pockets tucked in the back like they’d been forgotten. He frowned. _Ham & Cheese_. Must have been an accident, but might as well polish them off. He slipped a thumb under the paper flap and dropped the box, its contents cracking against the tile, one item spinning like a top until it stilled beneath Shiro’s slipper.

                The digital readout blinked on the oven. His shadow dipped over the counters, the freezer’s light and cold pooled over his face, and with the resealed box tucked under his arm, an ugly snort erupted from behind his tingling fist.

                Shiro called up the stairs and the thin glowing line beneath Keith’s bedroom door interrupted.

                “What?” Nearly upside-down, Keith folded over the banister.

                “Get down here.” Shiro hid his wince as Keith climbed over the railing to land in the living room. “Why do you insist on—never mind. So. Lean pockets.”

                “Yeah, you got me.” Caught, but still on the defensive, Keith angled his chin. “You hate those. They taste like cardboard.”

                “Tell me something else. Why is there a frozen rat in this box?”

                Arms folded, Keith made everything but eye contact. “Lance, uh, wouldn’t eat it. It still has a face. Takashi, come on!” Keith growled at his open laughter, attempting to snatch the box withheld by his greater reach.

                “How picky.” Shiro lifted his arm higher. “And how strangely altruistic of you.”

                “You suck.” He scowled, playing dirty.

                “I’m bleaching the freezer.” Shiro rubbed at his elbow, set on objection. “You could have at least put it in a plastic bag.”

                “Didn’t think about it.” One shoulder dropped as if it could slough off his unwavering stare while he clutched the box tight.

                “…Okay. So.” Shiro put two and two together, irrepressible smile akin to the Grinch in the face of Keith’s wary suspicion. “You bring Lance food now? I thought Hunk did that.”

                “Yeah, well.” Keith gave in and stopped chewing at his bottom lip, all plaintive explanation. “Red-tailed hawks can’t eat one source of meat. He’ll get sick. It’d be like if you ate a diet of protein shakes.”

                Shiro shut the freezer, flicking the stovetop light on so they weren’t standing in the dark. “That does sound pretty gross.”

                “And he can’t eat only hamburger, you—you heard him—he doesn’t want it anymore so that’s out. He’s so stubborn and he won’t change his mind.” The irregular drumbeat of Keith’s fingertips against the box rattled its contents as he hummed, a soft preoccupied musing. “Rabbit was okay though. It’s a little gamey and fatty. He never eats anything, I want to help him.”

                Years spent worried and protective were cemented but there, with an oven handle digging into his thigh, Shiro shifted. Maybe he’d never stop thinking of Keith as his kid brother—a portion of him always would—but Keith ran headlong into danger as an adult just as stubborn—no, unwilling—to surrender finding a way forward. A history of quiet observations and procuring research for knowledge to help a friend in need.

                “What?” Keith stopped yanking baggies from their container, nose wrinkled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

                “Nothing, I’m just proud. You actually know where I keep the plastic bags.”

                “You are so corny.” Keith exhaled noisily, replacing the slightly more sanitary box in the freezer. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

                “Only to you. Throw that out trash day since Lance isn’t biting, not that I blame him—an actual rat, really?”

                “It was an impulse buy.”

                “I don’t want to know what site you’ve been on that has rats for sale. Someone has questionable search history.”

                “You mean you do, I used your computer.”

                “Your lack of shame knows no bounds,” Shiro muttered.

                “Change your password. I got feeder mice from a pet store for snakes.”

                “Hate to break it to you but Lance has feathers, not scales.”

                “I know that now.” Keith said, deadpan and a little distracted. Brows furrowed, he angled his gaze to a point behind him. “You’re in the fridge at—almost midnight?”

                “Get off my back,” Shiro said. “I pay my bills, which by the way, your month for the air con. Since you want to leave your bedroom window open.”

                Keith’s face tilted from bland annoyance to surprise. Shiro crossed his arms, a blaring mistake in light of the tenacity Keith displayed incrementally.

                Two immovable objects.

                Crumbling as his stomach protested, Shiro forfeited his stance for clean hands and hunting down a pack of cold-cuts while Keith hovered, unimpressed.

                “What?” Shiro asked, determining if he’d go open faced or resign to folding over the single heel of bread.

                “I don’t know, waiting. Or do I need to go find a silver wig?”

                “Too far.” Shiro said. “You can _leave_.”

                “Okay then, sorry.” Keith extended a veritable olive branch so Shiro met him halfway. “No wonder she was so quiet when you won’t talk to her either.”

                “Look, it’s been a few rough days.” Something of that truth strengthened his resolve, a brick-by-brick division, and Shiro licked stray mustard from his thumb. “But I’m fine, and hey, you’re clearly fine.”

                “All I thought of was we’d mess up. But we did anyway. It could have been worse. For the record, I want to believe you.” _But I don’t._ Keith sucked in a breath, body language at once unsure. “First friends I’ve had in a long time and no matter how much we hurt, I know they’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. But Lance can’t do any of that. Not living in his own body, that’s… it sucks. It sucks and he’s so much braver than I could ever be about a crappy thing. I have to believe someone like that can be okay because without it, I won’t be. He gets hurt, that’s it. And he still does stupid stuff. Like at the zoo…both times.” Keith ground out, cheeks flushing. “Or today.”

                Shiro knew without a shadow of a doubt Keith had never told Lance any of that. “You already know you’re brave. He’s just really aware of his limitations. You gave him support.”

                Keith squirmed, a tiredness interwoven with his half-hearted smile. “Yeah, I’m not good at it, but I’d rather him be mad at me than dead. That’s horrible, right?”

                “All things considered, I’m pretty sure he appreciates it, the thought anyway.”

                “I want, I’m trying to do better.”

                “That you’re standing here, saying so, wow.” With a solid thwack as he pulled away, Shiro strong-armed a hug out of Keith. He spoke around a bite of his, frankly, sorry sandwich. “You will. I know you. Fact is you’ve made those friends as you are, cactus ass.”

                Keith’s burgeoning grousing tapered as Shiro gathered his splintered thoughts.

                “Think you can show me how you pull that solo thing, the one where you can go off on your own with no worries?”

                “Uh, no?” Keith looked at him funny. “Every time I try, something stupid happens and we barely scrape by.”

                “I don’t mean literally.” _Your silence benefits no one._ Scrubbing a hand over his face, Shiro paused, the thread lost to him while Keith made a _go on_ motion. “Whatever happens, it’s on me. I can’t second guess anything and the Galra would love to tear us apart.”

                “Even if I’m speaking for everyone, who better? I trust you.” Keith said nothing else for a long while. “But you deserve to be happy, without turning into a poodle.”

                Despite the Keith-speak reassurance, despite Shiro’s even and steady breathing once under his fluffy comforter, sleep was an elusive goal. The maw of Oriande, bright white and awe inducing, of taujeer lunging for him, vile and revolting, flickered in his mind like shadows. And so with the rise of the sun, gritty-eyed and heavy, he reached for the holophone and tapped out a _good morning_ to Allura sans his usual true or false astronomy fact before tucking the device into his hoodie.

                Partway through the third lap of his running route, his pocket vibrated, a quick chirp. Allura. Air sucking into his lungs, he staved off his curiosity until he rounded a shaded corner, another chime from the holophone breaking him.

                _Good morning._ She replied in turn. Nothing unusual. The most recent note stopped him in his tracks, sweat cooling against his skin.

_How are you?_

                In all their messages, from planning missions to casual discussions Allura had never once asked—in the past, with Shiro having asked her at times, she would usually reply in a detached positive. Until he withheld such questions from habit and she had no need, she seemed to glean most of his moods from proximity anyway. So in his head. All business, and all easy conversation. She wouldn’t ask if she didn’t want to know.

                He wasn’t sure how to reply. Only he should.

                Another fifty feet before he made a decision, his response, and he turned toward a copse of trees. Beneath their cover, he morphed. Feathers sprouted from his skin, their filaments deepening brown, a rich sheen contrasting the brilliant yellow protruding into his vision. That too, improved as he took to the air on massive wings. No barrier between ground and sky, flying left Shiro freed now, shed of the trappings of manmade tech granted by an invention millennia beyond his imagination. But in this gift—and weight—he was truly dependent on himself.

                The clearing below a faded green beacon, Shiro landed in the underbrush, stepping forward once on human legs, her voice soft in his head. Distant. The energy cloaking the dome shimmered as he stepped through the threshold, beige walls welcoming him in.

                It would all be okay.

                “This is unexpected.” Allura said, hair coiled atop her head in two thick braids and back turned to him, attention remaining on one of the mice. Chulatt. He scurried into another room and Allura offered him a wan smile. Even with her tired eyes, something unfurled in his chest, a buoyant flicker tamped down by force of habit. “Sleep evaded you as well.”

                “It’s something we share.” There’s no point in denying it so Shiro doesn’t, instead kneading the back of his neck. “Can’t say I’ve had good rest in. In a long time.”

                “Since the Galra.” Her tone went sharp, spat in the way of a curse softened by inevitability. “What that thing took from you…”

                He can’t deny that either.

                It simmered hot under his skin, a wave, a current of force on his behalf both indignant and tender, reeling. And Allura, her feelings were worn, turned over and tumbled smooth. An old thought. It rendered him overwhelmed.

                Not for the first time.

                “Get out of my head,” Shiro said, her anger at the Galra, what lay beneath it protected close, taken away in an instant severance before he could examine it further. “You don’t have to, I’m doing better now. I don’t mean for you to worry.”

                They’ve met halfway.

                “I will regardless.” Allura admitted. “None of us are better.”

                Shiro licked his lips, mouth dry and a bit taken aback. “You don’t believe in recovery anymore?”

                “Not alone.” Allura sighed, gentle and tired. “Your face betrays you. Your hair betrays you.”

                It doesn’t do to be surprised, but he was, again and again. Seen through like a window.

                “You know I would’ve gone grey before all this. It was meant for me, like destiny.” Shiro said lightly, grey strands drifting on the outskirts of his vision. “If not Keith, worry for all of you. For you.”

                “Then we can share that too.” Allura quipped, gesturing with one braid like a tassel.

                “Trust, you wear it better.” Shiro followed the movements of her hands taking down the braid’s start, answering her small smile with his own.

                “Of course,” she replied breezily, her eyes alight.

                He’d overstepped his bounds once.

                But his body remembered, a comfort he revisited more than he cared to admit kept in check. All of his mistakes exposed. Yet Allura walked on silent feet as she disappeared into another room, ends of her hair curling from view at the last. The moment was gone.

                <It’s as Lance says, breakfast is the most important meal of the day,> Allura said in singsong, returning with two bowls in hand, pressing one into his palms. “I think he stole it from Hunk.”

                It’s a pretty common saying but as he peered into the bowl of greenish goop, it didn’t much matter. “I thought you were low on food stores.”

                “You’re welcome to it.”

                They settled at the table, Shiro hoping against hope food goo was more palatable than it looked. “I don’t want to steal your stuff.”

                “Food goo is designed to be nutritious, everything else is secondary.”

                Curiosity won out, mentally marking himself first man to consume alien food. What an award.

                “It’s very. Gooey.” Is food goo nourishing or is that the distinct lack of enjoyment rendering him no longer hungry?

                “If it’s not to your taste, I’d understand.”

                Shiro hummed and plowed through a few more flavorless bites, lingering uncertainty calculating the odds of ruining the clinking flatware. Platt and Chuchule were squeaking loud enough that Allura weighed in on their conversation via thought-speak. “Have you heard from Coran?”

                Each mouse stared at him unblinking. Allura set down her spork. “There’s been no word.”

                She doesn’t elaborate.

                “Princess, what’s a few grey hairs to your worries?”

                Something shifted, a minute change. “It’s possible he’s found an escape. That he finds my crystal’s signature once he does. But it is a journey without habitual messages. I give him time. Yet under far less dangerous situations would he have dispatched an excess of trailing documents.” 

                “Then he needed more time. He’ll come.” 

                “You say that easily.”

                No one who ever loved her would give her up so easily. He shrugged. “I just know.”

                Allura mimicked the gesture. “Such faith, you should eat more. You’re already in a better mood,” she teased. “No? Sit with me then."

                It was more command than anything else as Shiro rested his back against the sunken couch, breakfast lay forgotten in the residual warmth of her hand in his own as she’d guided him there, released as she’d settled on her own cushion, a bowl cupped in both hands now.

                “I didn’t know you drank hot tea.”

                “Only just, would you like some? It should be palatable to humans this time, I removed the molten ore.” Allura sipped her drink, face schooled neutral.

                “You’re kidding.”

                “Yes, well. At least you can tell. Lance expects laughter at whatever he tosses me. I might understand but it’s exhausting and I’ve a very long memory, before I could name him friend. He’s changed somewhat as of late.”

                “You could probably blame Keith for that.”

                “Oh?” Curious, Allura leant forward.

                But Shiro kept silent, taking up the bowl offered to him by Platt. It’s awkward, drinking that way and he said as much, if only to change the subject.

                “I don’t have everything, the replicator only produces bowls. There was never need for anything else.” Her thumbs coursed the bowl’s edge, less fidgeting and more contemplative. “But the dome lacks so much. I lack so much.”

                For a moment, Shiro was rendered speechless. Her posture didn’t weaken but her jaw was set, determined. “Allura, how can you say that?” It’s not about the damn bowls. “We failed together. If anything, I—”

                “You were mistaken. I failed, Prince Shiro. When I saw Sendak point that gun at you, I’d only wanted you to…I didn’t want you to die. But I wasn’t fast enough. I could have spoken to Sendak and exchanged myself for Parker.”

                “I would never have let you do that.” In the face of her regal ire, his convictions were resolute.

                “‘Let’ me?! I’ll do as I please! It’s what a leader should do.” Like her father. “It would have spared you.”

                _No, it wouldn’t._ “I’m here now, somewhat okay. Next time we come up with a better plan. Maybe there was no better way,” he continued softly. But of one thing he was sure. “Sendak would have shot me without hesitation. Just a feeling it would’ve been a worthless exchange, not for me.”

                “The Paladins couldn’t function without you.”

                “They’d figure it out.” Regrets and hindsight were a duo, a cold barrel chasing him down.

                Allura stared at him, intent, nudging every self-imposed boundary further to the left. “I believe in you, am I wrong to do that?”

                “I don’t know about _wrong_ , but…” Shiro swallowed around words he’d not meant to give voice. They seemed to fester there, commingled with the amnesty of her belief.

                “Do you find yourself unworthy of my friendship?” Allura cut him from all protest, matter settled.

                “We aren’t that kind of team, and it hasn’t changed so far.” _I won’t ever leave you behind._ Neither spoke, Allura to her own thoughts, Shiro weighed by a burden, the silence extended until he was struck by a piercing clarity. “Was anyone ever fit for this, to lead?”

                “Father admitted he was not, at the start. But he had Mother and Coran, and his advisors and… it is as Paladin Pidge would say, quite unfair.” Contemplative, Allura’s cheek pressed against the cushion from her reclined position.

                _We aren’t getting out of this unscathed._ “Allura?” Washed over him like an omen, stirred by murky sediment however soothing in their mutual confidence, but how she sequestered herself, an actual princess in her tower. She hummed, waiting for him to continue. Coalesced, he admitted to one mercy, one he wanted. The brave face they all put on, and a small joy upon her face in return. “You should get out more. ”

                “I’d like that.”

 

 

                Somehow waking more rested on a couch than he’d been in weeks had been the first problem, but the fact that most places closed early on Sunday became the second and far more pressing. As an eagle and an osprey respectively, he and Allura dove for a thicket of trees in his neighborhood, dwindling options heaped onto his shoulders as a mild annoyance.

                <I shouldn’t have slept so long,> Shiro said, shifting alongside Allura who replied he barely slept at all. She managed to demorph through a significantly less gross process, the light-dark patterned feathers receding to her morphing suit. Skintight, the jumpsuit’s dark legs gave way to a mottled swirl of pink and white, Altean emblem striped over her chest. Oh. He tugged his vest over his head—while it gave him peace of mind to consider his block of townhouses Galra-free, it was nothing more than wishful thinking, not a guarantee. “Slightly less conspicuous.”

                “Only just,” Allura said, amused buzz tingeing her words as goosebumps coursed over his bare arms. The neighbor’s blinds were askew, muffled barking from an unseen but recognizable source trailing their sidewalk path. 

                Of all the things Shiro expected, colliding with Keith at the front door wasn’t one of them, helmet tucked under his arm. “Where are you going?”

                “On my way out. Hey, Allura.” Keith glanced between them, eyes narrowed, mirroring Shiro’s suspicions. “I have questions.”

                Shiro rolled his eyes. “Out where?”

                “Out out.” His morphing outfit peeking through thin material, Keith sneered, checking him as he passed by. “I’m watering a cactus, jeez, lay off.”

                “Whatever, I don’t care,” Shiro called over his shoulder, catching the moment Allura produced the holophone from a pocket to give Keith.

                <You’re worried about him,> Allura said privately.

                “Don’t call unless it’s an emergency,” Shiro warned as he swung open the front door. “And don’t let there be an emergency. For once.”

                “Leave a sock on the door,” Keith retorted halfway down the walk.

                “What does that mean?” Allura stepped past him and for one moment, Shiro considered whether throwing propriety out of the window this one time in front of her would’ve been worth it for snatching Keith off his bike and into a headlock.

                “All of Keith’s stuff will be in a cardboard box when he comes back, that’s what it means.” Shiro scrubbed a hand over his face, motorcycle engine fading into the distance.

                Allura hummed. “Earth idioms make no sense.”

                That’s fair. But now they were alone, alone in a way foreign from the peace and quiet and routine of the dome. In his space, the semi-neat stack of shoes by the door, the coffee table book she’d picked up, its binding cracked as she examined its pages before moving on to the sentimental pictures lining the wall. And the fresh strangeness of it subsided. In his clothes like a second skin.

                To be comfortable here, in a way he was not.

                “Are these your parents?” Allura asked softly.

                Shiro nodded at the photo, nudging the frame less crooked, all four of them within smiling by varying degrees, drawing of a floating cat outlying the boundary made crude by the photocopy. Her name was Black. “Our parents let us name her, we weren’t all that creative.”

                The edges of her smile lifted. “Were you close?”

                Silence doesn’t exist in a vacuum.

                “Not anymore.” It was easier not to call, not to check-in, alleviate whatever new guilt with a steady one.

                “Sorry to hear it, that must be hard,” Allura said sincerely, voice scattered somewhere around the stars. “You remember _yelmores?_ There’s a saying.” From her description they seemed like tiny elephants and her mouth formed a string of Altean, untranslated by her own will. “But it’s not figurative, they really do move that way.” She tilted her head. “Hm, bad example. I still don’t understand how socks relate…”

                “You’ll have to think of another!” He winced, clapping a hand over her shoulder while backtracking towards his bedroom. “Right, yeah, I’m going to go change. And figure out where the hell we’re going,” he muttered under his breath.

                “Prince Shiro, everything is something different. It doesn’t have to be special.”

                Hardly reassuring yet her face, brimming with joy and curiosity for experiences, prompted him on.

                “I don’t have anything you’d look good in—I mean not that you could look bad.” _Mayday_. “Nothing will fit and it might get cold.”

                “I don’t mind, Prince Shiro, I’m sure I’ll find something.” She lifted a hanger out, rumpled white button-down sealing his doom.

 

 

                The start of sunset slipped through the blinds by the time they left the townhouse, Shiro crossing behind the Charger as Allura settled into the passenger seat. With the ignition engaged, his speakers rattled from shivering bass, his heartbeat gaining and tripping a few steps. He swore under his breath, sliding the volume on a long trip down to mute. He hadn’t been in his car since returning from the convention center, blasting cold from the air con another method to keep him alert. Fiddling done and well-aware of Allura’s presence, Shiro drove as she rolled the window down, her hair gone honeyed in the fading sunlight and tousled by the resulting breeze as the streets passed by in a gentle blur.

                “Are you hungry?” He could eat. “How did you like the Chinese food? Do you want to try something else, or…”

                “Very different from food goo.” Allura tucked her hands into her lap, distracted while watching the scenery. Framed underneath the arch of his snapback, Shiro glanced at Allura pulling the hood up over her head, curls fanning around her neck. “I want to try everything else!”

                They’d reached the nearest buffet restaurant, C rating pasted at the door like a proudly displayed badge of honor for discovering the wonders of food poisoning . Shiro about-faced with her before they’d crossed the threshold.

                Okay not that.

                The scent of grilled meats from a Brazilian steakhouse wafted into the car.

                Not that either.

                Stuck at a red light, he jogged his leg. When it came to vegetarian fare, he was out of his depth. Eyes half on the road, half cataloging every restaurant as unacceptable, Allura drew him from his thoughts by asking about his article for an astronomy journal.

                “Getting it finished. Kind of.” Dragging his heels on having that pack of lies published, he’d come close to shoving the document into the shredder several times. “It seems pointless now, I’m fighting a losing battle trying to remember what I’m supposed to know.”

                “I’m responsible for that.”

                “Oh yeah, blaming you completely,” he teased.

                “I could read the rest.” Allura scoffed, her mouth quirked mischievous. “And if it sounds completely wrong, it’s fine.”

                “Exceedingly knowledgeable about the universe… How else can you ruin me besides space facts?”

                Answering his searching look with her own, the halo in her eyes flickered in the passing lights. “Give me a tick, I could think of plenty more.”

                “Take all the time you need,” Shiro hummed, merging into traffic.  

                Red and white chasing unknown destinations, car headlights drifted, their susurrations making their own rhythm as Allura spoke. “Space is actually quite lonely. I’m sure there’s more than either of us could imagine at its far reaches. More than I could navigate, surely.” Allura’s voice wavered, unsteadiness punctuated by a sigh and Shiro reached out so palm to palm they nestled there, a connection of encouragement. “As much as I try not to dwell upon it, Altea was no haven. But I do miss it all the same.” It’s not a transgression, in the manner of every comforting gesture, hands linked over the console. “Earth is kind of a nice place, from what I’ve seen of it. There was one planet, an outpost, a center for commerce.”

                Overwhelmed by the urge to do something profoundly stupid like weaving their fingers together, the calm, the smile in her tone, compelled his hand return to the wheel. “So it’s a giant mall?”

                As long as his mental infractions remained unacted, he’d not yet disrespected that uncrossed line.

                “I suppose so,” Princess Allura continued, “I was not permitted to visit but I’ve heard stories.” 

                “Why, what kinds of stories?” Shiro frowned.

                “That it’s ‘ _no place for a princess’_.” Her mocking intonation subsided. “Exaggerations—it was a place of peace.”

                “Allegedly.” The idea of taking royalty to the food court was absurd—he could do better than that. But if she wanted choice… he pulled onto the right-hand lane to get off at the next exit.

                “You have markets, how are they?”

                Black Friday sales came to mind.  “Trust me, American malls aren’t exactly utopia either.”

                “Space is as dangerous as it is wonderful,” Allura said and Shiro was incapable of anything but  wholehearted agreement. “And I’ll allow it is a place I’ve allegedly never been, yet whether true or not, I want peace for this planet.”

                “Very idealistic, but… ” The meaning behind her words dawned on him. “You’ve been there.”

                “Can you prove it?”

                “Allura.”

                “You cannot.”

                “Then you could swear on Haxus that you’ve never stepped foot in this princess-banned mall?”

                “Haxus is quiznaking dust and implies respect I do not have. But for the three days you survived on those I could swear…” His weakest moments, his torments, and the fact that she could respect he was unbroken sealed away a mounting dread at speaking that name. Her hand patted lightly against his shoulder. “I swear I was not myself.”

                “Sneaky.” Even with the surety he’d probably never win an argument with her, nothing would stop him from trying if only for the amusement playing across her features. “But you’re always a princess.”

                “Of course, and I’ll have you know the most fascinating thing—there wasn’t the never-ending twilight sky, the suns were not your brilliant yellow, but a color I cannot describe between blue and green. No, they said it was the diversity of people, travelers come to make trades and barters.”

                “Very descriptive gossip.” Innocent, he cut the engine in the parking lot. “Not biased at all.”

                Taking in the row of neon signs labelling each store in the strip mall, as she twisted the seatbelt curled. “Where are we going?”

                “The most un-special place I can think of.”

                A cool gust of recycled air hit them as the sliding doors parted, and Shiro grabbed a shopping cart.

 

 

                Grocery shopping with Allura wasn’t so much a chore as it was an adventure and an experience, rendering him trailing dust from a comet in her wake. As she glided ahead, the cart housed a set of mugs from housewares and he nestled an item she’d haltingly passed up where it lay outside her notice. Bright lights glancing off the linoleum as they wandered the aisles, and with his crappy midnight snack fresh in his mind, Shiro picked up a sack of sliced bread. Allura’s inquisitive nature was a balm to the cheesy pre-recorded thunder rolling in over the produce section.

                “Why are they not called red-berries?” Allura pointed between the sign marked blueberries and oranges to the strawberries in his periphery.

                She had a point. “If only things could be so streamlined.”

                “Complicated, it’s a universal concept,” Allura said sagely—in a place so wholly foreign to her, poised and elegant even while brushing her hand free from the settling mist on leafy vegetables—their conversation turned to food and her preferences.

                “If you want to know how to prepare meals, go to Hunk, but this is where I live.” Shiro maneuvered the frozen food section with Allura in stride, her hoodie zipper pulled high. Every panel of glass painted them domestic as she commented on the quaintness of microwaves.

                A new normal—where he could pretend to be okay. But it was a trick of the light, a mirage, because Hunk had been right. They were wrong to take Parker’s DNA, and their interference cost him dearly.

                <Prince Shiro.>

                Now he’d no choice at all.

                “Prince Shiro!”

                At her urgency, he came to himself, vacant gaze on an open freezer case. “Allura, Princess? I—”

                A bystander gave them a funny look and Shiro waited for them to pick up their ice cream and go before he spoke again, assuring Allura he was fine.

                _Get it together._ He couldn’t return to the person he was even a month ago, how he’d changed, and changed again. But at the concern writ clear in Allura’s expression, he kept  his voice low, casual in explaining his misgivings.

                “We agreed to it. As you said, there was no better way, and they won an incomplete victory.” Allura continued, “Perhaps it will be enough, I don’t know, but we can—we can just not know together.”

                They fought like hell because it was the right thing to do. He’d never questioned it but how they fought mattered as much as why. Vague by design yet the comfort in Allura’s words allowed him to focus on the present, on Donovan’s gratitude, that stuck with him.

                Passing shellfish on ice, the overhead lamps lit the tank a sterile murky blue and Allura stared at the lobsters crowded into its bottom in a lethargic layer. “Those poor creatures are still alive.”

                “They’re a delicacy.” One acquired taste if an anniversary dinner had anything to say about it. Thank goodness for food trucks. He met her questions of how they were prepared and her hurt little gasp garnered that dangerous and determined look in her eye.

                Noticing their lingering by the counter, the fishmonger pounced. “Anything I can get for you tonight?”

                Shiro eyed the price per pound and hoped she’d choose anything but the plump bruiser who’d clearly had a good run. With great relief his wallet shivered instead of strangled as an acceptable target was dredged and wrapped up.

                “We’re taking you home.” Allura leaned over the basket, shirttails peeking from the hem of his hoodie, depositing the luckiest lobster inside. It’s enough. Cart filled with their scattered choices and satisfied there would be something that met her expectations, they headed for the front of the store.

                In the checkout lane, Allura studied a display of gourmet chocolate. “There’s meat in this chocolate bar.”

                “Humanity sometimes enjoys creating abominations because they can, never stopping to think if it _should_ exist.”

                She made a face. “Mad with power, you’re on watch until further notice.”

                “By all means.”

                She slid a bar onto the conveyor belt, which one escaping him because he truly didn’t care when she never broke eye contact.

 

 

                Placing their bags into the backseat, Shiro settled the soon-to-be liberated lobster atop the groceries. Feeling the vibe of a late night beach visit even under strange circumstances, he was pretty sure the lake was closer but equally sure that would kill the lobster, and hadn’t it been through enough—at least it wasn’t getting boiled alive. _Just another adventure._ By comparison this was tame.

                “This is for you,” he said, handing a separate bag to her.

                By the time he rounded to the driver’s side, she was scrutinizing a small wedge of soft cheese, the pleased look on her face spreading warmth somewhere beneath his ribs. Draping his arm over Allura, the leather of his jacket creaked against the back of the passenger seat as he pulled out of the parking space. Allura leant forward, turning the speakers up to a low volume, melody and bass drifting over them both. She smiled back. Tentative and tenuous, threads mended together to knit a woven fabric finer than any he could recall, a pure mental link both comforting and comfortable. At a stoplight, Allura sifted through the bag, her soft exclamation as she found the chocolate bar stifled as a chime, overloud and unwelcome, broke the atmosphere.

                Allura held the holophone up to her ear and Shiro darted glances while he merged into traffic, her voice as quiet as the stilled expanse of their connection.

                She passed him the holophone, Keith’s voice drifting yet harried on the other line.         

                But Shiro had to be sure. “Are you bleeding?”

                “Uh, no?” Not comforting in the slightest when intoned with uncertainty, but word was bond. 

                Shiny paper glinting in his periphery, Allura returned to unwrapping the chocolate and offered him a piece. He shook his head, preferring she enjoy it.

                “Again, why are you calling?” Shiro set it to speaker, spike of wary concern melded to exasperation while Keith stalled out. “I fail to see the emergency.”

                “Can hawks eat bacon?”

                Full disdain on tap at this point, Shiro never got a chance to express it—petty squabbles  notwithstanding.

                “Lance, it’s really—”

                “Come on, man, you play around too much—tell him to give me the bacon!” Lance said, relayed frantic by the rustling transferred over the speaker.

                “Prince Shiro,” Allura’s delight in the chocolate emanated in a giggle, whatever withered blooms gaining roots in the face of distraction. “Chocolate is not a human mistake, it’s delicious!”

                “Allura?! K-Keith, get off the phone, sorry,” Lance fumbled, his voice flat by design and muted without its direction at the phone.

                “What, I’m—okay, bye.”

                They drove in quiet conversation after that while Allura sampled different foods, liking some things, hating others. And the beach and its sand greeted them all too soon. It was a clear night, the waves rolling against the shore glinting with moonlight and the light pollution that drowned out a perfect view of the night sky.

                The stars brought him pain, multitudes of problems he’d never believed he could bear. The stars brought him Allura herself who, signs and wonders, was not looking at the pinprick tapestry overhead, hushed, but gazing out over the vast ocean. Allura found Earth amazing but Shiro found space amazing. Yet Allura was amazing.

                Water lapping at their bare feet, Allura waded into the water, Shiro not far behind with his joggers rolled up.

                “We’ve got a situation,” she said, the lobster’s pincers waving with more enthusiasm than when they’d first freed it from its rubber band shackles.

                Freed at first from the chill, stilled and sedated, to the ocean’s grace.

                They returned to the shore. There wasn’t a person in this galaxy or the next good enough for her but damn does he ever want to try. How many royal laws, rules known and unknown was he breaking now with the thought alone?

                They looked out over the ocean, Allura suppressing a slight shiver. “You all saved me. I could not have come so far on my own.”

                “We could do this again.” Shiro could do anything with her and it would be fun, the mundane made interesting. For so long, without room for error in fighting, but together like this, those faults became faultless in simple companionship. A feeling of safety. The way he’d seen himself with Adrian, the potential of what could’ve been with Missy, that slow affection wound through the marrow of him, it seemed impossible he could ever think what he felt for Allura could be a mistake.

 

                His nerves buzzed under his skin as they walked together through the forest. The way it should be. Half crescent of her marks glowing, her hair bleached itself paler until Allura was completely herself again. And the gravity of her eyes drew him in, arms encircling his waist. Each touch sparking one mantra _remember this, remember this._

                It means everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never again will the outline for a scene consist of vague words like “battle” and I'll move on thinking it’ll be fine. It wasn’t fine at all. I struggled so hard and I hope it’s worth it.  
> Also, Alfor ate regular looking food and Coran even made a dish so I can't imagine food goo tasting good ha.  
> Let me know what you thought on [tumblr](http://maisoncavalier.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/maisoncavalier)~  
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments appreciated!


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